Between Dreams and Reality
by loulouflowerpower
Summary: Holmes/OC-The year was 1895 and London was rocked by the mysterious case of the Abominable Bride. Holmes and his friends must work together to solve the case, but is everything truly as it seems? Dreams are mixed with reality, but what is the truth? Can he save himself before he slips to deep, but does he truly wish to lose the life that he has built with his wife, Amelia Holmes?
1. Chapter 1 Miss Amelia Moriarty

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, I only own Amelia and any OC characters introduced into these stories.**_

 _ **Miss Amelia Moriarty**_

The year was 1881and the great city of London was rocked by a string of mysterious poisonings. The papers and police claimed suicide, the public claimed hysteria, but Miss Amelia Moriarty claimed murder. She had followed the case closely, right from when the very first victim had been discovered, a middle aged man who had been found dead within an old, run down building, seemingly from his own hand of consuming some sort of poisonous substance. She had attempted to learn more on the matter, curious by what would possibly make a wealthy man decided to end his life in such a manner and in such an odd location, but her efforts were of little use, once again rebuffed by Scotland Yard and their narrowed minded ideals on women. She was unsurprised when a second mysterious death occurred, much in the same manner as the first, only proving further in her mind that her belief of foul play was true. She tried, again, to bring it to the police's attention, but she might as well have been speaking another language, as far as the Desk Sergeant was concerned when he had dismissed her, and Detective Inspector Lestrade once again made it no secret that he found her to be absurd and nothing more than a annoyance, when she had attempted to speak to him after the third victim had been discovered.

It was, of course, all because she was a woman, a most unusual woman to most, some might even call her eccentric or, if they were feeling less inclined, an oddity of nature. Unlike many other young women of her young age of twenty one, she had denied any attempts upon her hand for marriage. She still remembered coming to the realisation in her childhood, witnessing the ways in which young women would parade themselves in front of an array of men, the way that they would smile coyly and be mindful to play the fool to stroke the man's ego, that she would not be amongst them when her time came and true to her word, upon her first season within London society of the elite and wealthy, she had refused all three of her marriage proposals. Most men had been attracted to her for her wealth, better they wed an Irish heiress then an American heiress who knew little of English decorum and sensibilities and preserve their ancestry home with their new, rich wife's money. That was all that she was to most men, she had known that all along and that was not the life she wished for herself.

That wasn't to say that she hadn't been tempted by the lure of marriage and the charm of a good, decent man, but the truth was that marriage meant a loss of independence. She might be a woman within a man's world, but she had her freedom, the ability to purchase whatever she wished and do as she pleased. She had no man to answer to and nor would she, because even with a decent man, they wouldn't ever see her for how she truly wished to be seen: as an equal. She would always be seen as a woman, a wife, or a mother by any husband she might take, so she was quite happy not to take one and live as a spinster. What did she need a husband for when she had her work? She might never be respected or even taken seriously as a detective, but she would proudly continue to work, regardless of what anyone said, because she was meant to be a detective. She knew it and she was good at it, no matter what the police might like to admit, she knew it and that was enough.

Her work, for instance, had lured her out into the cold evening air this very night, after she had heard word from a friend that a fourth victim of the mysterious poisonings had been found, only when she had arrived at the scene of the crime to find that yes, indeed, another murdered had occurred, it was to discover that something was different about this one. Finally, the police had been forced to see that it wasn't just a string of very similar suicides, but an ingenious killer at work. This last victim had apparently left a message, scratched into the very floorboards of the abounded house with her fingernails, a most gruesome and desperate attempt by the victim to write a message before succumbing to her death. Amelia might not have been able to gain access to the actual scene of the crime, the police had been most careful to restrict the public and the press who had gathered on the street, but she had her own means, money did wonders to loosen tongues and the police were laughably easy to bribe, much to her disgust and professional pleasure.

She smiled to herself in the back of her coach carriage on her black leather seat, snippets of light from the moon and passing lampposts streaming in through the window, illuminating her gloved covered hands neatly folded in her lap of her red velvet and black trimmed dress, her dark brown hair styled in elaborate curls on top of her head, braided into a crown before curls fell from the base of her neck to the middle of her shoulder blades. She could take some satisfaction in the knowledge that she had been correct in her first deduction of foul play, but it did make her sigh sadly as the thought of the other three victims, perhaps if Scotland Yard had taken her seriously and listened to her, then perhaps those innocents would have lived and the killer would have already been hanged by now, but that would never happen.

The carriage came to a gentle stop, one of the horses giving a loud neigh and huff outside, dragging its hoofed foot against the cobble stones of the road. Amelia waited for her coachmen to jump down from the front of the coach and move around to her door, pulling the steps out and opening the door for her, taking her hand to help her climb down onto the footpath outside the white washed facade of her Belgravia home, lighting from within the home spilling out onto the street from behind the drawn lace curtains.

"Thank you, Campbell," she said to the tall, mid forty year old ginger haired man as she removed her gloved hand from his.

"Should I wait for further instruction, ma'am?" Campbell asked her, standing tall and straight backed beside the still open door of the carriage.

She glanced back over her shoulder to him, "Oh, I shouldn't think I shall require your assistance this evening," she told him, giving him a light smile, "Goodnight, Campbell".

"Ma'am".

She turned and walked across to the three steps leading up to the front door, taking a handful of the front of her skirt and lifted it very slightly above the top of her shoes to step up the stairs, the small train of her large bustle trailing behind her. She didn't need to knock or use a key, the door opened by the time she had reached the last step and she was bathed in the warm light of her entrance hall, her butler, Gladstone, there to welcome her over the threshold, his grey hair neatly combed over the top of his head and his black and white livery looked perfect, as usual.

"Ma'am," he nodded to her as he stepped aside as she stepped over the threshold, her small heels clicking on the marble floor. She reached up to remove her cloak, Gladstone helping to take it off her shoulders once she had unclipped the jewelled clasp.

"Good evening, Gladstone," Amelia greeted him with a smile, pausing to consider her reflection in the circle mirror that hung by the wall of the door, "I shan't bother to change for dinner this evening, I'll simply take a tray in the library," she turned away from the mirror and began to set off across the entrance hall and towards the library door, already starting to unbutton the pearl buttons of her gloves, not caring if she ought to get her maid to do it.

"Ma'am, you have a visitor," Gladstone informed her, and Amelia stopped instantly, turning back around to frown at him in confusion.

"Surely not at this time of the evening, Gladstone".

"He was most insistent that he speak with you tonight. I would have called the Constable, madam, but…"

Amelia eyed him curiously, feeling quite intrigued as to what about this man might have stopped her usually very protective butler from allowing a strange man to invade her home at this hour of the evening without her consent or previous warning of his visit, "Yes, Gladstone?" she raised her eyebrows.

Gladstone lifted his chin higher, "He seemed to be the under the impression that you are working together," he said, making Amelia actually blink in puzzlement, "I didn't wish to have him thrown out if that was the case, if I was mistaken…"

"No," she found herself saying, shaking her head slowly as she thought very quickly. What an odd claim to make when it was quite untrue, she had never worked with anyone before and nor was she likely to work with anyone, so why claim such a thing when the chances of her denying it were quite high? Was it simply to gain access into her home? But for what purpose, it would be terribly foolish to attempt to cause her harm or to rob her when they had been clearly seen by her staff, even the most desperate or deranged surely wouldn't be so foolish, however, her experience was likely limited on the matter, she expected that she was probably a little naïve about just what lengths some people might go to. Still, she was curious, this man clearly had some sort of intention and plan in mind, why not play along? "I do apologise, Gladstone," she gave him a smile, "I completely forgot all about the meeting, I'm afraid it's rather recent partnership…" she cleared her throat, re-buttoning her gloves to avoid meeting his eyes directly, feeling a little bad for lying, "It's a little embarrassing, I must confess. I've completely forgotten the man's name; I don't suppose he gave it to you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I believe, madam," Gladstone informed her, likely suspecting that she was lying, but he would never dare to accuse her of such a thing.

"Ah, yes, that's it," she nodded, inwardly finding the name to be quite a curious one, but the last name was what really caught her attention, hadn't she once been introduced to a Mycroft Holmes of the British Government at some ball or another during her first season? She wondered if they might be related, brothers, perhaps? But what would the brother of Mycroft Holmes want with her? "Well, I had best not keep him waiting, I've already been a very poor hostess," she said lightly, absently smoothing her gloves hand down the front of her ruffled skirt, raising her eyebrows, "Best send us some tea, I think, Gladstone. Where have you put him?"

"The library…" he replied, and Amelia swiftly turned and began to walk back over towards the library door, mildly surprised that he had sent the man in there, "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Madam…" she stopped at that, half-turning back towards her butler, who wore a small frown on his lined face, "Are you quite certain that you would not wish for me to…accompany you during your meeting with Mr Holmes?"

Amelia almost laughed aloud at that, but she managed to stop herself just in time, settling for a gentle smile, "My reputation is already in tatters after refusing three marriage proposals and yet, you still strive to protect it," she shook her head fondly, turning away from him again, "Just bring the tea, Gladstone. Oh, and perhaps some of those lemon tarts".

She continued across to the large, dark stained wooden door of the library and paused outside, taking a deep breath…or as large as her tightly laced corset would allow before reaching out to grasp the gold doorhandle and twisting it, swinging the door open. The library was quite possibly the most well lit room within the entire house, she always insisted on having it that way, given that she detested being forced to wear her glasses and if she could get away without them, she would. Gas lamps lined the wooden panelled walls between massive bookshelves, filling the large space with the warm yellow glow of them and light spilled out from the crackling fire within the marble fireplace, positioned around the fireplace was a large, red couch, while two matching armchairs stood on either side of it, facing into the sitting area, while across the room was a large writing desk that was covered in neat piles of paper, a small lamp covered with a stain glass lampshade sitting on the edge of the desk top. It was the room that she conducted most of her privet business; rarely did she ever allow anyone but herself inside it, even out of her staff only Gladstone was allowed inside it, as she didn't wish for one of the maids to disrupt her filing system.

She found Mr Holmes almost at once, finding him standing with his back towards her before one of her bookcases, his hands clasped behind his back as he seemed to be admiring her collection of books that lined the shelves all the way up to the ceiling. She observed him curiously; noting that he was rather tall and slim, with almost black hair sleeked back and dressed in a finely tailored black suit, confirming in her mind that he surely was related to Mycroft Holmes.

"You have quite the collection of books relating to the human psyche, Miss Moriarty," he said suddenly without turning around, well spoken and intelligent, it was obvious that he had been highly educated, "It's quite impressive," he slowly turned around to face her, "Few people understand the power that the mind has over us, let alone carry such a interest for it".

Amelia forced herself not to react, finding herself rather surprised to see how little he actually resembled his brother. Oh, there was hints of Mycroft in his features, but far fewer than one might expect, he was clearly the younger of the two, only a few years older than herself, she would imagine, with pale skin that indicated that he spent much of his time inside and sharp features that, while rather unusual, were not unpleasant and intelligent, pale blue, almost grey eyes. The eyes were the same as his elder brother, but that was it.

"Most people would presume that those books belonged to my late father," she remarked, slowly stepping further into the room, watching him closely. He was difficult to read, but she could perceive that he came from a wealthy upbringing, much like herself, and that he was self-employed, but exactly what he did was difficult to read…she suspected detective work, but in a different style to what she was used to seeing.

"Then they would be mistaken," Mr Holmes replied almost at once, "Your father had little to no interest in the subject of the human mind, his interest lay in Entomology," he smiled very slightly at the look of surprise that crossed her face, "On one of the shelves there is a case with several butterflies pinned inside it…" Amelia glanced over towards the very shelf he was referring to, which indeed housed a small glass and wooden case with large, brightly coloured butterflies pinned beneath the glass onto a white background, "It is the only case of its kind within the room, so I can perceive that you have it for sentimental purpose and not as a collection. On the case a small plaque can be read with the message engraved into the metal work, 'Dear Papa, much love and well wishes, Amy and James'. Obviously a gift from you and your older brother to your father".

Amelia swallowed, desperately trying to keep her shock from showing on her face as she looked back across to Mr Holmes, who was watching her quite keenly, a knowing little smirk on his lips, "Most impressive, Mr Holmes," she said quietly, moving around the back of the couch towards him, "But you failed to miss _one_ detail…" she couldn't help smiling very slightly, looking back up to his face, which had frozen. She came to a stop directly in front of him, her smile widening, "James is my twin".

Mr Holmes closed his eyes briefly, frustration and annoyance crossing his face briefly, "There's always something…" he muttered.

She laughed softly and turned away from him, moving back over to the couch and taking a seat on the edge of the cushions, "Please sit, Mr Holmes," she waved a hand towards the armchair, which he took, making himself comfortable. She eyed him for a moment, "Forgive me, but I am not accustom to entertaining complete strangers within my home like this".

"I assure you, I don't make a habit of calling upon women in the night".

"I should hope not," she laughed lightly, "For what a scandal it would cause".

Mr Holmes watched her closely, "And yet, you are not scandalised".

"Of course not, I'm intrigued. Scandal is for the hypocrites, who wish to be seen as virtuous and above reapproach, but there is no such thing, is there, Mr Holmes? Everyone has a little bit of the devil inside them".

He smiled very slightly, still eyeing her, "And what side are you on?" he asked curiously, "Devil or angle?"

Amelia meet his eyes firmly, not needing to consider it, "Both, of course".

He stared at her for a long moment before his smile widened and he sat back against the armchair, looking quite pleased, "I suspected we would get along quite nicely," he commented happily.

She raised her eyebrows, "How very forward of you, Mr Holmes".

He sat forward again, suddenly looking quite serious, "I have a proposition that I would like for you to consider, Miss Moriarty," he told her, making her eyebrows climb even higher, but she was obviously quite interested in what he had to say, so he continued, "As I'm sure that you have deduced, I am a detective, a consulting detective. When the police are unable to solve a murder, they ask me to assist".

"I see," she nodded slowly, feeling a small hint of envy. This man was doing everything that she had always longed to do, he not only helped the police, but he was obviously respected and highly regarded for it, something that she knew that she would never have just simply based upon her sex. She gave him a faint smile, pushing aside her less then pleasant thoughts, "I imagine that you must be quite exhausted, then".

"The police are fools," he agreed, "They tend to miss the most obvious when presented to them, including your talents, it would seem," Amelia looked at him in mild surprise, inwardly quite shocked that he had actually admitted aloud that she was skilled at her work, no one had ever done that before, "You shouldn't be so surprised, Miss Moriarty," he said lightly, his gaze growing more intent, "You clearly possess a good instinct for murder and a keen mind, most people blunder around and never stop to properly _see_ , but you do. You see the tiny details that everyone else misses, the splatter of blood on the killers coat, the fake jewel, the replaced masterpiece…you see it all. Just as I do".

Amelia swallowed, hard, unable to look away from him and for the first time in years she finally felt like someone understood her, "You have been going over past cases that I attempted to get the police to investigate," she said quietly.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade mentioned a woman who claimed to be a detective several weeks ago, naturally I was curious. I did some investigating into you myself, but it wasn't until this evening that I thought it was time we meet, face to face".

Realisation hit her then and she closed her eyes briefly, "You were at the scene of the fourth murder," she shook her head, looking at him in a new light, "You saw me amongst the crowd, I imagine, it would hardly be difficult not to notice me…" she absently touched the velvet fabric of her dress, knowing that even in a large group of people, her expensive dress would have caught his eye at once.

"Indeed," he nodded, inclining his head towards her. He rose from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back as he moved to stand before the fireplace, turning back to face her, "It is plain to me that you have potential and intelligence, Miss Moriarty, but you are wasted, all simply because of your sex. I would propose that we form a partnership and work together".

Amelia very nearly gaped at him; unable to believe what she was hearing, what he was suggesting. It surely had to be a joke on his part, no man would ever think for a moment about working with a woman, let alone forming a partnership, which rather implied that they would be working as equals, "You must surely be jesting, sir," she shook her head, staring at him with wide eyes, "You have little, if nothing, to gain for wishing to work with me, you clearly do quite well without need of any aid and I have no cliental to be able to bring to your door," she paused, narrowing her eyes on him, searching his face. There had to be something more, "So explain to me, Mr Holmes, what would _you_ gain from a partnership with me?"

"Naturally, you will assume that it is about your wealth…"

"The thought did cross my mind, very briefly, but you have no need for my money, that is clear from your state of dress and most recent move to a suit of rooms close to Regents Park".

Mr Holmes's eyebrows rose, giving her a curious look, "How did you…?"

"There's muddy clay on the cuffs of your trousers and you slept quite poorly last night, judging by the circles beneath your eyes. I believe that the Underground Railroad is currently being built beneath the streets of that vicinity, but…I must confess that it was something of a guess, on my part. Both the mud and poor sleep could easily be caused by something completely unrelated, but your suit, which is newly made...I have an eye for fabric and that wool, the colour and design, that was made by a tailor who has a shop near Regent's Park. Again, it might not mean anything, but it's still a feasible chance that you live near to that area".

"Impressive, Miss Moriarty".

"You didn't answer my question, sir. What might you have to gain by a partnership with me?"

"Aside from the helpfulness of having someone to be able to discuss ideas with, I believe that female clients would feel more comfortable coming to me if they were to have another woman present. In my experience, women tend to feel more open in the presence of another".

Amelia frowned at him, still feeling quite mistrustful and slightly confused, it still didn't make complete sense to her that he would wish to work with her, but so far Mr Holmes had treated her quite different from how most men would, he had engaged with her as if he truly did see her as an equal, he hadn't just humoured her interest in the human mind or attempted to discuss simple, dull topics like the weather. For the first time since her father had died, she felt as though she had meet someone who understood her and, more than that, wanted to encourage her, not even her own father had done that.

"I can see the logic in that," Amelia admitted after a long pause, still frowning. She gracefully rose from the couch and walked towards him, but her gaze was on the flames in the fireplace rather than him, thoughtful.

He watched her closely, his expression unreadable, "You are still unsure of if I truly mean what I say".

"Few men would ever indulge the idea of a woman wishing to be anything but a wife or mother, let alone a detective".

"I am not most men, Miss Moriarty".

She pulled her eyes away from the flames to meet his, the pale blue taking on more of a grey tone in this light, "That is quite clear, Mr Holmes," she said lightly, frowning still, "You are aware that should we form this partnership, you may experience much resistance with the notion of working with me, the police will certainly not approve of working with me".

"Then we shall have to rise to the challenge and prove them wrong".

Amelia considered him, not entirely sure of if she truly trusted him, they were pretty words but she had always believed in actions, not just words, and she would not allow herself to truly trust him until she saw for herself what he said in motion. But she could not deny that she was tempted by his offer, it likely would be the only chance she had to be able to possibly be a true detective and possibly prove herself, not to mention that the idea of seeing Lestrade's expression when she arrived at a scene of the crime would surely be a sight to see.

"Miss Moriarty," Mr Holmes said, breaking her from her thoughts and drawing her attention back to him, "What say we make this a trial, help me solve these four murders and then you may give your final decision on if you desire to form this partnership".

And he held out his coved, leather gloved hand towards her.

Amelia looked at his hand in surprise, realising that he truly meant to shake her hand as he would do to any other man, but she was a woman and such a gesture was not typically the custom. It made her feel strangely happy that he seemed to be sincere about treating her as an equal, however, in the back of her mind, a small voice reminded her that he was surely intelligent enough to be able to manipulate her…but when she looked into his face and body language, she saw no deception, just simply honesty and that was what made her reach out and take his hand, shaking it three times before letting go.

Of course, Amelia was not to know that it would be the start of a great adventure for herself, not to know that her whole life would change just simply from that one moment. No one could have known, but she was incredibly grateful that it did, for that was the night that she first met her husband, marrying in 1889, and the father of her children.

 _ **Gasp, children?! Originally, I had no intention for Holmes and Amelia to be married, let alone having children during this Victorian special, the plan was that they would end up together at the end of the special, but after I found out that there is a fourteen year age gap between Holmes's first meeting with Watson, therefore also Amelia's first meeting, it didn't make sense to me that they wouldn't have become romantically involved and married by the time the events of for the children thing, I couldn't imagine that Amelia wouldn't have at least fallen pregnant without the protection of modern birth control. You'll also note that Amelia is going by Moriarty instead of Wilson; I figured that without modern technology and the ability to find out information very easily, she would be less concerned about anyone making the connection between her and Professor Moriarty. Also, she never married…considering that this is all in Sherlock's head, I wonder if that means anything…**_

 _ **Next chapter, these mysterious children make an appearance, we get a look into the life of a Victorian day Sherlock and Amelia Holmes, and not everyone is a fan of Watson's stories. I hope you liked it, tell me what you thought :)**_


	2. Chapter 2 The Stage is Set

_**The Stage is Set**_

Snowflakes drifted past the window of the coach carriage as it travelled through the busy London streets, bustling with life in preparation for Christmas as Mrs Amelia Holmes sat beside her husband, Sherlock Holmes, her white gloved hands clasped in her lap, while their dear friend and self-appointed Boswell, Doctor John Watson, sat on the seat across from them, peering out through the chilly, frosty looking street outside, his very large and impressive moustache curled very slightly at the ends. They were travelling to Baker Street from the train station after having finished solving a rather gruesome, but intriguing case in the countryside and Amelia was quite looking forward to returning home, she missed her children and was quite looking forward to seeing them again, a whole week away from them and London truly was something she didn't believe she would ever grow used to, and she knew that Sherlock was eager to be in the confines of Baker Street once more. The case was over and now, it was time to find another.

"Oh, I do hope the children behaved," she sighed, glancing at Holmes beside her, making her small, rounded diamond and pearl earrings swing. She absently smoothed her gloved hand down the front of her brown and black, high necked dress, her large leg of mutton sleeves brushing against Sherlock's own shoulders before the sleeve grew tighter as it reached her elbow and down to her wrists, her waist tightly bound with a dark brown, velvet trim running around her waist, matching brown boots hidden beneath her layers of petticoats. Her hair was styled in a bun at the base of her neck, a small tortoise shell comb sitting in it, hidden beneath her brown, feathered hat. As much as she detested her small rounded glasses, she was forced to wear them when out in public, since it was quite annoying to have to squint, "I suppose that it ought to be a good sign that they have not scared off Miss Hawkins," she remarked, shaking her head, "I do like her so, she's Irish and young enough to understand that children do have personalities of their own".

"They certainly do have personality," Watson said as he continued to peer outside the window. Of course, any child of Sherlock Holmes and Amelia Moriarty was always destined to be a handful; they did take after their parents in more than just physical appearance.

"I would not concern yourself, Amelia," Holmes told her lightly, looking out through the window on his side of the coach, "The children know that if they don't behave, they will not hear the story of the case".

"Which reminds me…," Amelia brightened, looking across to Watson with a smile, "Your most recent story ought to be published today in The Strand, should it not, Watson?" Holmes gave a loud sigh beside her, earning a small nudge in his ribs from his wife. She gave him a stern look as he frowned, rubbing at his ribs, "Oh, I don't see why you moan, Holmes, he's always written you in a most flattering light".

"In a _romanticised_ light, Amelia, the only aspects of the case that have any importance are the analytical reasoning behind my… _our_ deductions".

"That is not a story, Holmes, that is an academic journal," Watson shook his head, looking mildly annoyed as Amelia rolled her eyes. It was the same old argument again, "The public wish to see the _story_ , not the 'analytical reasoning,'" he exchanged a look with Amelia before shaking his head again and peering back outside his window, "You're quite right, Mrs Holmes, I would like to see how it turned out…"

"Papers!" a loud voice shouted out in the distance from out on the street, over the sound of carol singers singing 'Hark! The Herald Angel Sing,' "Papers!"

Watson raised his hand and knocked his knuckles against the coach wall behind him and the driver, "Campbell, would you please redirect us to the man selling papers, please?" he called loudly.

"Yes, sir!" Campbell said at once, and began turning the horse and coach back around, directing the hose closer to the edge of the footpath and the man selling papers.

"Papers! Papers!"

The coach slowed beside the large man who was holding an armful of papers in his arm, while Amelia and Holmes leaned further back into their seat, thankfully mostly hidden from view within the darkness of the inside of the coach. Neither of them wished to draw attention to themselves if it could be helped, Holmes because he would have to pretend to be friendly and polite, as Watson's writings seemed to have led half of London to believe he typically was, and Amelia because it likely would mean delaying their journey to Baker Street.

Watson leaned out through the open window towards the man, "Here," he gestured to the man, catching his attention as the coach came to a complete stop beside the footpath. He rested his arm against the top of the window, flecks of snow drifting passed his face, "How's 'The Blue Carbuncle' doing?"

"Very popular, Doctor Watson," the vendor replied happily, and Amelia gave her husband a pointed look, quite proud of Watson and his literacy success, even if it did come with some disadvantages, not to mention her lack of apparent involvement in any of Watson retelling of their cases. She still hadn't forgiven him for completely writing her out of his stories, "Is there gonna be a proper murder next time?" the man asked hopefully.

"I'll have a word with the criminal classes".

"If you wouldn't mind. Is that 'im?" Amelia barely contained a sigh, feeling Holmes tensing beside her, "Is 'e in there?"

"Who am I again?" Amelia muttered in annoyance. She did find it rather amusing how much the public seemed to love Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes of Watson's stories, in any case, but she did find it quite annoying that everyone seemed to believe that he was the one who solved the cases all by himself. She was there for all of it, for every case…well, almost every case, she was forced to take a step back when she was in the later stages of pregnancy. She knew that it was Watson's doing, he had been the one to write the stories and make it seem as though Holmes was all knowing and solved the cases without her aid, all because the public wouldn't take to the idea of a female detective. She still thought that was absurd, the public never would take to the idea if they were not exposed to it.

"Don't moan, Amelia," Sherlock whispered to her, making her narrow her eyes at him, but he had already turned away to kick Watson's leg in warning, causing the man to grunt, still leaning outside the window.

"No," Watson said quickly to the paper vendor, shaking his head at the man, fixing a smile onto his face, "No, no, not at all. Ah, good day to you," he lightly tapped his finger against the edge of his bowler hat, before sitting back into his seat.

"Walk on," Campbell ordered the horses, giving the reigns a shake and setting them off once more through the bustling street.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes!" the vendor called after the coach.

Holmes sighed loudly and gave Watson a withering glare, "Must you encourage them, Watson?"

"The public enjoy our stories, Holmes," Watson replied, seemingly ignoring his obvious annoyance, "Besides; it's hardly a crime for a man to wish you a Merry Christmas, is it?"

He turned his attention back onto his window, his expression still quite sour, "Perhaps it ought to be," he muttered.

Amelia shook her head tiredly, "Oh, please do cheer up, my darling," she urged him, reaching out to place her hand on his arm, making him glance back to her. She gave him a gentle smile, "Christmas time does always tend to bring out the more homicidal in all, remember? People simply can't help it; all of the stress of purchasing presents and family gatherings, another murder is surely to come up soon enough".

Holmes broke into a soft smile, suddenly looking quite happy, "Let us hope so," he said almost eagerly, giving her one last smile before returning his attention to the window beside him.

Watson sighed and shook his head as he watched the couple. Holmes truly had chosen the perfect women to marry for himself, no other woman but Amelia would ever consider murder to be something to bring cheer to her husband, just as no other woman would happily join them on their cases, even the most gruesome and awful, without bulking at the mere suggestion. Watson, even after fourteen years of working with both Holmes and Amelia, still found it quite astonishing that a woman could have the stomach to do the work that they did, but she had proven herself more than capable and he had been forced to concede that she had a place within their small group. He had thought that perhaps motherhood might soften her and cause her to sink into domestic bliss, just as most women would, but not even the birth of her children had slowed her down, she seemed to be just as passionate today solving crimes and seeking justice as she was the first morning that he had meet her.

The coach carriage continued on through the streets of London and soon enough they were turning down into Baker Street, the whole street positively buzzing with life as the footpath was crowded by men and women bustling from place to place, snow still fluttering through the air. The coach was brought to a gentle stop outside the black door of 221B and the door swung open; just as Campbell had climbed down to open the carriage door. Mrs Hudson emerged from within the house; while behind her a young, dark haired women in a black dress with a large, white apron appeared, holding the hands of a young, curly blacked haired boy and girl. The children could hardly be older than four years old; the little girl wearing a pale blue dress with a matching ribbon tied in her mess of curls, while the boy wore a sailor themed jacket and vest, with long socks that come to his knees, just beneath his knee length trousers.

Campbell opened the door of the carriage and stood aside as Holmes climbed out, holding his pipe in one hand and offering Amelia his other to help her down. Watson followed a moment behind Amelia, who instantly broke into a wide smile at the sight of her children standing on either side of their nanny, their small faces filled with excitement at the sight of their parents return.

"Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson sighed, shaking her head as she moved close to them, "I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home".

Holmes removed his pipe from his mouth, just as little Billy, the houseboy, came dashing out through the front door and moved around to the back of the coach, where Watson and Campbell were unloading the luggage.

"I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson," he told her, smoke swirling into the air from his lit pipe, "That's the trouble with dismembered country squires, they're notoriously difficult to schedule," he gave her a polite smile before lifting his pipe back up to his lips.

Amelia gave him a fond smile before turning back to Mrs Hudson, "Next time, we will try to send word, Mrs Hudson," she assured her, even though she knew that the chances of being able to do so would likely not be possible, but it seemed to brighten Mrs Hudson slightly, which was what counted. She turned and walked across to Nanny Hawkins, the children had been waiting so very patiently, giving them a wide smile as she crouched down to their level, not caring about dirtying her dress, "Oh, my darlings, come here…" she opened her arms wide and the children practically flew into her, snuggling into her side and wrapping their small arms around her waist.

"Mamma!"

"Careful now, children," Holmes said from just behind Amelia, sounding almost amused, "You don't want to make your mother dirty, do you?"

"Papa!" instantly, they released Amelia and practically flung themselves at their father's legs, very nearly causing him to stumble backwards half a step at the impact.

Amelia smiled at the sight, watching as Holmes, pretending to seem as though he wasn't just as happy to see their children again, lightly patting the tops of their heads. He was still trying to get used to being a father, he had spent almost the first three years of the twin's lives pretending to be dead, while Amelia had been forced to raise them as a widower under the belief that he truly was gone. She knew that he still found it a little difficult to know exactly how to engage with the twins when it came to hugging, he himself had been raised mostly by nannies and governess during his youth, spending only an hour in the evening with his parents for much of his own childhood, so the concept of physical contact was still something that didn't quite come naturally to him, but Amelia hadn't wanted her children to grow up like that. She had nannies and governesses as a girl, but her parents had also played quite an active role in raising both herself and James, allowing them freedom to express themselves in ways that other children of the same era were discouraged from doing. Perhaps it might not have helped her brother, but she had always felt very pleased and happy whenever she thought back to her own childhood and that was what she wanted for her children, to know that it was perfectly normal to have emotions and thoughts of their own, and to encourage them to explore that within themselves.

"Have the children been behaving themselves, Nanny Hawkins?" she asked as she rose from her crouch, brushing her skirt down as she did so, before looking back to the dark haired, brown eyed woman before her. Behind her, she could hear the children excitedly asking Holmes questions about the case, barely even giving him a chance to try to respond before interrupting again with another question.

"Oh, they have been quite well behaved, Mrs Homes," Nanny Hawkins nodded, her Irish accent more apparent then Amelia's own, looking over towards the twin's, "There was only two small incidents, Master William refuses to eat his peas and Miss Agatha is most displeased by the notion of wearing dresses, she was quite confused as to why she isn't allowed to dress as Master William does".

Amelia struggled to hold back a laugh, casting the twin's a fond look, her heart warming at the sight of Holmes crouching down slightly to better hear the twin's array of questions, one hand firmly clasping Agatha's while the other held his pipe, "It is nice to see that little has changed, then," she remarked to Nanny Hawkins, "William will eat beans if you smother them with butter and I will speak to Agatha. I went through a similar phase myself at her age".

"Very good, Mrs Holmes".

"What's in there?" Billy the houseboy questioned suddenly, looking curiously at the brown leather, top hat box that Watson was holding, clasped tightly in his right hand, apparently having refused to allow the boy to sit it amongst the rest of the luggage being placed on the footpath.

"Never mind," Watson told him sternly, only holding the box tighter.

Amelia cleared her throat and gave Holmes a look, she couldn't say she was overly fond of her husband's idea of bringing a body part home in order to conduct experiments on, but as long as the children or Mrs Hudson didn't stumble across it, she was more than happy to pretend as though it didn't exist.

"Come along, children," she called to the twins, "You had best come inside out of the snow".

William and Agatha hurried back over to their mother, their curls bouncing as they moved, eagerly taking her out stretched hands, their fingers already feeling like ice just from the short time spent outside. Amelia made a mental note to have Nanny Hawkins fix them both a warm drink as she turned to begin to follow Mrs Hudson inside, Hawkin's following close behind.

Just behind them, Billy picked up two of the suitcases to bring inside, "Did you catch a murderer, Mr Holmes?" he asked eagerly, looking back over his shoulder to Holmes and Watson, heading for the doorway.

"Caught the murderer, still looking for the legs," Holmes informed him, taking his pipe out of his mouth as he followed behind the boy, "Think we'll call it a draw," he stepped over the threshold, passed Mrs Hudson, who had paused by the door to hold it open for them, and into the long entrance hallway, finding Amelia in the process of slipping her hat and cape off, "Here, allow me…" he moved closer to her and reached out to take the cape off her shoulders, hanging it on a peg on the wall.

"Thank you, darling," Amelia flashed him a bright smile, hanging her hat of the same peg, "Now, let me return the favour," she reached up to remove his deer stalker hat from off his head, hanging it on one of the pegs before assisting him to remove his Inverness cape, something they tended to do when they were not in a rush.

"And I notice you've published another of your stories, Doctor Watson," Mrs Hudson's voice reached them from the doorway.

"Yes," Watson said, sounding quite pleased as Amelia hung Holmes's coat up, "Did you enjoy it".

There was a short pause, before…, "No," she turned and stepped over the threshold into the hallway, while Amelia struggled to hold back a laugh, imagining Watson's startled face.

Watson moved inside the hallway a moment later, trailing behind the older woman, "Oh?" he frowned very slightly, looking quite disappointed and surprised.

"I never enjoy them".

His frown only deepened, pausing to push the door closed behind him, while Amelia and Holmes moved to stand before the small fireplace diagonal to the bottom of the staircase where the children were already warming their hands. They watched on in amusement as Watson looked at Mrs Hudson, "Why not?" he asked.

"Well, I never say anything, do I?" she shook her head, holding her hands out on either side of her as she turned back towards Watson, who had moved further up the hallway to stand before the clothing pegs, "According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfast," she waved a hand up the stairs, looking quite disgruntled.

"Muma," William tugged on Amelia's hand, making her blink slightly and glance down at her son, his large, brown eyes staring back up at her, "Why is Hudders upset with Uncle Watson?"

"It's nothing to fret about," Amelia assured him in a whisper, lightly stroking his cheek. Out of the two, William was surprisingly the more sensitive; he was more likely to sense when someone was upset or angry, while Agatha took after her father more in the emotions, more likely to be oblivious and to say things without possibly thinking about it first, but she had grown more sensitive as she grew older. They were only four, almost five years older, after all, "Mrs Hudson is just displeased with Uncle Watson's writings of her," she explained, before straightening once more to watch Watson try to sooth Mrs Hudson.

Watson cleared his throat, pulling his coat off to hang it up on the only spare peg left, "Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function," he said, reaching up to take his hat off to place it on the peg, too.

"Oh, dear…" Amelia sighed, exchanging a quick look with Holmes beside her. That was certainly not going to help matters.

Mrs Hudson stared at him, her eyes widening, "My what?" she exclaimed.

"Don't feel singled out, Mrs Hudson," Holmes told her calmly, making her look over to them, "I'm hardly in the dog one and Mrs Holmes hasn't even been mentioned once, as she often reminds me".

"'The dog one?'" Watson repeated indignantly, apparently quite offended with Holmes's lack of care recalling the correct titles of his stories. He took a few steps closer to Amelia and Holmes, still clutching the hat box.

"I'm your landlady," Mrs Hudson huffed, holding up a finger and waving it at Watson, who didn't even glance at her, busy frowning at Holmes, " _Not_ a plot device".

"Do you mean 'The Hound of Baskervilles?'" he asked Holmes, seemingly to be completely ignoring Mrs Hudson.

"I remind you because it is quite insulting," Amelia gave her husband a small glare, looking quite annoyed, "I have no interest in fame or congratulations for my efforts, but it would be nice if I wasn't _entirely_ erased from existence," she turned to fix Watson with her glare, placing her hands on her hips, and Holmes, perhaps seeing his chance to escape before his wife could turn her glare back onto him, crossed across to the stairs and began to walk upstairs.

Watson sighed loudly, closing his eyes briefly, as though he was suffering from a headache, "And as I have said, _several_ times," he said warily, opening his eyes to look at Amelia, "The editor felt that the idea of a female detective was simply too much for the public to be able to believe".

"…and you make the room so drab and dingy," Mrs Hudson was still moaning.

Amelia gave Watson one last angry look before reaching out to take the twin's hands, "Come along, children," she began to lead the twin's up the stairs after Holmes, Nanny Hawkins trailing just behind them.

"You can blame the illustrator for that, Mrs Hudson," Watson said from behind Amelia, sounding quite aggravated himself now, "He's out of control. I've had to grow this moustache just so people'll recognise me".

Amelia resisted against the urge to make a remark about the fact that the moustache aged him by at least twenty years, forced to remind herself that her children were right beside her and it would hardly be wise for them to witness her being rude when she was trying so very hard to teach them to be nice to others, Agatha, for one, would see it as an excuse to be rude. Instead, she continued to make her way up the stairs as she heard Watson's footsteps on the stairs below, quickly reaching the landing to find that Holmes had already left the sitting room door open, just pulling open the thick curtains covering the window directly across from the doorway open as they stepped into the room.

As light streamed into the room, it began to illuminate some of the more odd choice in decorations that her husband had long since acquired before they had even wed. A stags head, for one, was hanging on the middle of the wall over the top of a paper littered desk, between the two windows, with an ear trumpet hanging from off one of the large antlers, and that was not even to mention the knife that was stabbed into the top of the wooden mantle piece, pinning a small pile of letters in place.

Amelia had long since grown used to the ways in which Holmes lived, so she couldn't say that she had felt any great urge to try and change anything when they had married and moved in together, she had brought with her few items from her own home, mostly books and sentimental items, the rest of her belongings had been placed in storage while her Belgravia Square home was rented out. She didn't find that she missed living in her old home, perhaps Baker Street was a little smaller then she would have liked, but they had been able to find ways to expand, Mrs Hudson had been most gracious in allowing them to also rent out the bottom, basement flat so that Nanny Hawkins would be able to live downstairs and care for the children, while the twin's nursery was in Watson's old room at the very top of the building. It would do them, for now, but the children would soon be out of the nursery and be needing to begin their proper education, of course they were already leaps and bounds ahead already, but soon enough they would need to find room for more space, if they did decide to educate them at home with governess. Sadly, Baker Street was quite limited in that regard, Amelia had even considered that they live in Belgravia but keep something of an office in Baker Street, given how the public had come to expect Holmes to reside there. It was a notion that seemed most logical to her; however, she had yet to bring it to Holmes's attention.

Amelia shook herself from her musings and instead ushered the children over towards the couch pushed up against the wallpapered wall, quite looking forward to hearing all about just what Agatha and William had done for the past week, but just as she moved to sit down on the edge of the couch beside them, Holmes opened the curtain covering the second window, exposing a figure dressed entirely in black with a thick, black veil covering their face, standing before the fireplace, having been completely hidden in the shadows. The figure was clearly a woman, but there was no other noticeable feature's about her, all hidden from view.

"Oh, my gracious…" Nanny Hawkins breathed as she stood by the living room door, looking quite startled as she stared at the figure. Amelia blinked, quite startled herself.

"Good lord!" Watson exclaimed as he stepped into the room through the large double sliding doors, having just brought the rest of the cases up.

"Mummy!" William called excitedly, tugging at the sleeve of Amelia's dress, his brown eyes lighting up in sheer delight, "There's a shadow person!"

"That's not a shadow person," Agatha cut in, rolling her pale blue eyes. She sounded and looked just like her father when she used that tone of voice, "It's a woman wearing a dress. Obviously, Willy".

"Don't use that tone with your brother, Agatha," Holmes scolded her lightly, but his eyes were fixed on the covered figure, who slowly turned around to face the room. Agatha instantly lowered her eyes, Holmes usually left the scolding to Amelia, since she was far more practiced in doing it then him, but sometimes he would do it when he was too distracted to even notice. It worked well, since he so rarely did it, the children instantly knew that they ought to listen to him.

Amelia glanced at Nanny Hawkins, "I think it would be best if you take the children up to the nursery now, Nanny," she told her quietly, slowly rising from the couch, suspecting that they might just have their latest client on their hands. The children were not allowed to be within the room when they had a client visiting, it was highly unprofessional.

Nanny Hawkins nodded silently and motioned for the children to follow her, which they did only after Amelia gave them a stern look when they appeared to be dragging their feet. She waited until they had disappeared up the stairs to the nursery before looking back across to the figure, eyeing the woman curiously. The fabric of the dress suggested a comfortable means, not great wealth but enough to be able to have a few servants, at the very least, so this woman obviously had some means. But as for anything else, she could deduce little else about the woman.

Holmes frowned and moved across the room towards the still open landing door, "Mrs Hudson!" he called loudly down the stairs, coming to a stop in the doorway, "There is a woman in my sitting room! Is it intentional?"

"She's a client!" Mrs Hudson called back up the stairs, "Said you were out, insisted on waiting".

"Oh, it sounds like our first meeting," Amelia smiled slightly, while Sherlock glanced back over to her, giving her a look, "What?" she shrugged slightly, "I'm a sentimentalist, as you so enjoy reminding me, Holmes".

Watson cleared his throat and picked up one of the dining chairs, moving to place it in front of the woman, "Would you, er, care to sit down?" he gestured to the chair, but the woman remained completely still.

Holmes turned back towards the stairs, "Didn't you ask her what she wanted?" he asked loudly.

" _You_ ask her!" Mrs Hudson replied with annoyed tone.

Amelia moved to stand beside Watson, giving their guest a slightly apologetic smile…when she smelt something that made her pause, her eyes widening in realisation as her smile grew wider, even giving the mysterious woman a little wink when Watson wasn't looking. It was quite a clever disguise, but when one truly wished to disguise themselves, they really ought to change perfumes.

"Well, why didn't _you_ ask her?" Holmes demanded, seeming to be growing increasingly annoyed by Mrs Hudson's lack of help.

"How could I, what with me not talking and everything?"

He sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, turning away from the door, "Oh, for God's sake…" he muttered, stepping across to stand on the other side of Watson, "Give her some lines," he hissed at him, speaking quite quickly, "She's perfectly capable of starving us".

"She wouldn't starve me," Amelia whispered, giving her husband a smug little smirk, "Nor would she ever be so cruel to the children, I'm afraid you would be quite alone, my darling, since Watson no longer even eats with us on a regular bases".

"Oh…" he paused, actually looking a little surprised, as though he had completely forgotten that John no longer lived with him. He likely had forgotten, Watson did spend most of his time at Baker Street, after all, and Amelia was quite certain that if she looked hard enough, she could still find a few of his belongings lying about. He fixed Amelia with a look, raising his eyebrows, "Are you saying that you would allow Mrs Hudson to starve me, _wife_?"

"My dear husband, if you had wished for a wife who could cook and clean for you, then you ought to have married someone else".

He released a long sigh, his features softening very slightly, "No, I much rather a wife who can help me solve crimes then one who can cook," he gave her a quick wink, making her smile widely at him. He turned back towards the mysterious woman, fixing a friendly smile in place, "Good afternoon," he greeted her, "I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is my wife and business partner, Amelia Holmes…" he gestured to Amelia, who had to fight the urge to laugh aloud, knowing the truth of who was beneath that veil right now, "And this is our friend and colleague, Doctor Watson," he nodded over to Watson, "You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word".

"Holmes," Watson said with an edge of warning in his voice, while Amelia sighed and gave her husband a look that clearly said, 'behave'.

"However, before you do…" Holmes continued to speak to the woman, "Allow me to make some trifling observations," he gave her a slight smile and began to slowly circle her, while she remained completely still, "You have an impish sense of humour which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish," he came to stand on the other side of her and crossed his arms across his chest, stepping closer to Watson, starting to circle him now, all the while still speaking to the woman, "You have recently married a man seemingly of a kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavoury companion of dubious morals and his highly unusual wife…" he caught Amelia's eye briefly and she gave him a grin, inclining her head slightly, silently telling him that she had figured it out already. He came to stand beside Amelia again, looking back to the woman, "You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible".

Watson broke in an amused smile, shaking his head, "Good lord, Holmes," he chortled, apparently finding his deductions hard to believe, no doubt because it was impossible to even _see_ the woman beneath all the fabric covering her.

"All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume".

He blinked, eyeing the woman in confusion before glancing at Holmes, "Her perfume?"

"Yes, obviously," Amelia glanced at him, giving him an almost sympathetic look that instantly made Watson tense, "Honestly, Watson, it's all in the nose".

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, his expression quite grave. He never understood how Watson could fail to notice something so clear, he could always tell if Amelia had recently left a room just from the faint scent of vanilla in the air, "Her perfume, Watson, which brings insight to Amelia and I, and disaster to you".

Watson frowned, looking between his friends in growing confusion, "How so?" he asked, glancing back over towards the woman.

Holmes unfolded his arms and stepped closer to the woman, "Because we recognised it and you did not," he reached up to unclip the veil covering the woman's face, pulling it away and stepping back, revealing her face.

"Mary!" Watson exclaimed in shock, catching sight of his own wife looking back at him, while Amelia and Holmes exchanged a quick look, both caught between amusement and sympathy for what was surely going to be Watson needing to do a lot of talking to fix this one.

"John," Mary said lightly, giving him a smile, but there was an edge to it that made it look less friendly.

"Why, in God's name, are you pretending to be a client?"

She gave him a mocking frown, "Because I could think of no other way to see my husband," she gave him a little nod, her smile growing falsely sweet, "Husband".

Amelia glanced at Holmes again and cleared her throat, "I think I'll see about getting us some tea," she said a little overly eager, very dearly wanting an excuse to escape the living room to give the Watsons a chance to have their…domestic.

"Yes, excellent idea," Holmes nodded to her, apparently feeling the same way as she did, "I'll just…" he glanced at the Watsons and cleared his throat, not bothering to even finish his sentence before strolling off towards their bedroom.

Amelia quickly ducked down stairs to see Mrs Hudson to ask her if she would mind making them a tray of tea for four, which the older woman was delighted to do, chattering away about how fast the twins were growing up and what little troublemakers they both were when they were left alone for only a moment as the water boiled. Amelia had quite a laugh hearing about how Mrs Hudson had quite a fright thinking that Agatha had toppled down the stairs, only to learn that it was only a large, curly haired doll the twins had been tossing down the stairs, claiming that they were conducting a very important experiment that had something to do with projection and decent rates compared to impact from a staircase. Apparently, the nanny had stepped out for a brief moment and left the twins drawing in the nursery, since that day, she hadn't left them unsupervised for even a second.

Once the tea was ready, Amelia excused herself from Mrs Hudson and carefully carried the tray back upstairs, missing Gladstone in moments like this, but he had retired shortly before she had married Holmes and had returned to Ireland to live with his only remaining brother, so while she did still miss him, she was happy to know that he was happy. They still wrote to each other, Gladstone had been like a second father to her growing up, after all. By the time she had reached the landing and stepped through into the living room, it was to find that Holmes had changed his suit jacket and instead now wore a camel coloured dressing gown over his country tweeds, holding his violin in his hand, while on the other side of the room, by the fireplace, Mary and Watson seemed to be in the middle of a small argument, Watson pacing.

"Amelia…" Holmes shook his head as he caught sight of her carrying the tea tray, sitting his violin aside and moving across the room to take the tray from her, "You should have had Billy carry that up," he frowned at her, placing the tea tray down on the dining table, ignoring the papers littering the top of the table.

"I am not having a ten your old child carrying tea trays for me, Holmes," she gave him a sharp look, following behind him as she reached out to pick up the teapot, pouring tea into the four china cups, "Honestly, Mrs Hudson carries it all the time, I am perfectly capable".

Holmes sighed, "Very well," he turned away from her and picked up his violin once more, "But let it never be said that I didn't try to be a gentlemen," he gave her a look as he lifted his violin up to rest his chin on and lifting his bow, starting to play the song he had written for her as he turned his gaze outside the window.

Amelia rolled her eyes at him and his attempt to guilt her, sitting the teapot down and adding some milk and sugar to her cup, "Let the record never deny that you are a gentlemen, Holmes," she said with a mocking little toast of her teacup in his direction, taking a small sip of slightly too hot tea.

"It was an affair of international intrigue," Watson was saying angrily to Mary, turning to face her properly as he stopped pacing. Amelia raised her eyebrows as she watched the couple discreetly, lightly blowing the surface of her tea.

"It was a murdered country squire," Mary scoffed, resting her hand against the mantel piece.

"Nevertheless, matters were pressing," he told her at once, moving to stand directly in front of her and the fireplace, frowning deeply.

"I don't mind you going, my darling. I mind you leaving me behind!"

Amelia did find herself feeling for Mary, after all, she knew herself what it felt like to be ignored just simply because she was a woman within a man's world, that was one of the reasons for why she fell in love with Holmes in the first place. Not once had he ever expected her to be anything but what she was, which was an intelligent, capable woman with a passion for detective work. He had never attempted to push her into a more domesticate role, not even since they had the twins had he tried to suggest that perhaps her place ought to be at home with the children from now on. She did love Watson, he was a good man and while it might have taken him a great deal of time to grow used to the idea of working alongside her, even now he could have his moments, he had come to accept her as a part of their small group, but his wife was another story. He was just simply so old fashioned in his ideas, such a man of his time, but if he didn't realise soon that his wife was more capable of dealing with matters outside of the home, Amelia wondered about how their marriage might survive.

Watson stared at his wife, actually laughing faintly, "But what could you _do_?"

"Oh, what do _you_ do," Mary waved a dismissive hand at her husband, "Except wonder around, taking notes, looking surprised…"

Holmes suddenly stopped playing with a loud, angry screech that made Amelia cringe, having grown up playing the violin and having a great deal of respect for the music, "Enough!" he snapped loudly, still not turning away from the window. Instantly, Watson and Mary fell silent, looking over towards him in surprise, while even Amelia looked at him in mild concern. He lowered the violin slowly, gazing outside, "The stage is set, and the curtain rises," he said softly, "We are ready to begin".

Amelia frowned at him, glancing over to Mary and John before turning back to her husband, "Holmes, have you forgotten to tell us something?" she questioned in confusion, placing her tea cup back down on the tray behind her.

"Sometimes," he murmured, "To solve a case, one must solve another".

"Oh, you have a case, then?" Watson raised his eyebrows, taking a few steps closer, his hands in his tweed pockets of his trousers, "A new one?"

"An old one. Very old. I shall have to go deep".

"Deep?" he blinked, puzzled as he glanced over to Amelia, but she was frowning at Holmes. She didn't appear to have any idea what Holmes was even talking about, either, which was quite a surprise since usually she would know everything that Holmes was doing. Watson turned back towards Holmes, eyeing him more carefully, "Into what?"

"Myself," Holmes breathed, still staring off through the window, his back to them, "Lestrade!" he called suddenly, almost making Amelia jump, having been so focused on him. He turned towards the landing door, back to his old self again, "Do stop loitering by the door and come in".

They all looked over to the door, just as it swung open and a rather pale and anxious looking Inspector Lestrade appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily as he looked directly at the dining table, Amelia following his gaze to the crystal decanter sitting on a silver tray, before he quickly pulled his eyes off it to look at them.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, releasing a slow breath.

Holmes walked across to his leather armchair, sitting on a slight angle towards the landing door beside the fireplace, flipping his dressing gown back as he took a seat, "The regulation tread is unmistakable," he remarked lightly, pressing his fingertips together in front of him, observing Lestrade, "Lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson".

"I-I-I just come up," Lestrade told them, stuttering slightly, making Amelia narrow her eyes as she moved to sit on the armrest of Holmes's chair. That wasn't like the Lestrade she knew, he was usually always quite calm and collected, he had been a police officer for too long to be easily disturbed, but clearly he was right now. He frowned, looking back to them, "Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be talking".

"Oh?" Amelia's eyebrows rose, smiling slightly smugly, "She was most talkative when _I_ went to ask her to make us tea…I wonder what might have upset her so?" she looked directly at Watson, who shifted slightly beneath her knowing, pointed look.

Holmes sighed and gave his wife a quick look, before reaching for the old Turkish slipper that he had sitting on the small table beside his chair, containing his tobacco, much to Amelia's constant annoyance that he ought to place it somewhere away from the children. He took a pinch of tobacco from the slipper and pulled his pipe out of his pocket, filling it.

"I fear she's branched into literary criticism by means of satire," he said to Lestrade, "It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady," he sat back in his chair, eyeing him, "What brings you here in your off-duty hours?"

Lestrade cast the decanter another look, before frowning slightly as he returned his gaze to them, "How'd you know I'm off-duty?" he questioned, puzzled.

"The eyes truly do reveal our hidden truths," Amelia remarked lightly, giving him a knowing little smile as his eyes flickered over to her. Lestrade still struggled with the notion of a lady detective, even after all these years, but he knew that if he wished to have Holmes assist with his more difficult cases, it was the price he must pay, along with his silence on the matter, "Since you first stepped over the threshold, your eyes have barely left the decanter sitting upon the table," her smile widened as Lestrade blinked and threw said decanter another quick, slightly guilty look, "You are a man who tends to follow by the book in most matters of your work, so you would not ordinarily be drinking while working, therefore we can deduce that you are off-duty".

"Watson," Holmes said, waving his hand holding his pipe towards the tray and decanter, "Give the inspector what he so clearly wants".

Watson's eyebrows rose very slightly, glancing briefly over to Amelia, who made no move to stand to do it, as she really ought to considering that it was her household and the Inspector was technically her guest, but he had come to learn many years ago not to expect Amelia to behave in the same way of most women. While the Inspector removed his hat, Watson crossed the room to the table and removed the crystal stopper of the decanter, pouring a generous amount of amber liquid into a crystal glass sitting on the tray.

"So, Lestrade," he said as he began serving the drink, sitting the decanter back onto the tray with a small metallic chink, "What can we do for you?"

"Oh, I'm not here on business," Lestrade replied, still looking quite cautious as he walked further into the room, coming to a stop just in front of Holmes's armchair, looking over to watch Watson pick up the glass and walk back across to him, "I just thought I'd…stop by," he shrugged very slightly.

Watson glanced at Amelia and Holmes, the couple eyeing Lestrade closely, before turning back towards the man, "A social call?" he offered him the glass.

He took it, nodding, "Yeah, of course," he said, though he really wasn't fooling anyone, Amelia noting with interest that his hand shook very slightly as he grasped the glass, "Just wish you the compliments of the season," he looked around at them all, releasing a slightly shaky breathe as Holmes's removed his pipe from between his lips, neither he nor Amelia blinking. He nervously met their gazes before turning towards Mary, holding his glass up in toast, "Merry Christmas?"

"Merry Christmas," Holmes said at once, his voice flat.

"Merry Christmas," Watson and Mary said in unison.

"And a happy New Year," Amelia added, her eyes still narrowed suspiciously on Lestrade.

"Thank God that's over," Holmes continued swiftly, his expression unchanged, "Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?"

Lestrde took a large gulp from his glass, closing his eyes tightly as he swallowed the mouthful, while Watson and Amelia frowned, that was not a small sip of a man who was simply trying to steady his nerves with liquid courage, Lestrade practically finished the entire glass in that one mouthful alone. He opened his eyes and shook his head, glancing back over to the detectives.

"Who said _anything_ happened?"

" _You_ did," he said simply, lightly waving his pipe around, "By every means short of actual speech".

He took another large drink from his glass, this time finishing what was left and sighing in relief as he lowered the glass from his lips, Amelia's eyebrows rising even further.

Watson held up his finger, dragging his eyes away from Lestrade, "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, Holmes?" he said quickly, looking at Holmes, "You have misdiagnosed".

Holmes raised his eyebrows, sitting further back into his chair as he gave Watson a very slight, amused smile, "Then correct me, Doctor".

"He didn't _want_ a drink…" he reached out and plucked the empty glass from Lestrade's gloved hand, holding it upside down, demonstrating that not even a single drop had been left, "He _needed_ one," he looked back to Lestrade, eyeing him closely, "He's not embarrassed, he's afraid".

Amelia smiled very faintly at Watson, her eyes flickering over to watch as Lestrade looked down at the floor, briefly covering his mouth with his gloved hand, his face still terribly anxious and very pale. Obvious, really, that the man was afraid, she should have known from the moment she caught sight of his face, but she supposed that she was simple so used to seeing Lestrade unruffled by anything, and Holmes, well, emotional detections never truly was his strongest suit.

Holmes smirked proudly, looking back to Watson, "My Boswell is learning," he commented lightly, glancing at Mary and Amelia, "They do grow up so fast".

Amelia laughed lightly, while Mary smiled, "Yes, well done, Watson," she nodded to Watson, her dark eyes glimmering behind her glasses, "Soon enough, you shall be giving us all a run for our money, but until that day, would you be so kind as to pour the Inspector another glass?" she looked around to Lestrade as Watson nodded, moving to step back over to the decanter, "Inspector, please do sit down and explain to us what has ruffled you so," she gestured her gloved hand towards one of the dining chairs as she spoke, Holmes picking up a match from the table beside him and silently passing it and the matchbox to her.

Lestrade frowned very slightly, but he still moved across to the table, picking up one of the dining table chairs, "I'm…I'm not afraid, exactly," he told them, sitting the chair down close between Watson's old armchair and Holmes's, facing the fireplace.

"Fear is wisdom in the face of danger, as Mrs Holmes so accurately said once before," Holmes said calmly, glancing briefly up at Amelia, who gave him a small, soft smile, pleased that he had taken to heart her words spoken to him during their Baskerville case. He turned back towards Lestrade, his expression growing firm, Watson clinking away with the decanter, "It is nothing to be ashamed of".

Lestrade didn't seem to be completely comforted by his words, his eyes briefly flickering over to Amelia, who gave him a small, reassuring nod, just as Watson stepped over to him with a freshly refilled glass. He took the glass gratefully, "Thank you," he nodded to him, sighing slightly as Watson took a seat in his old armchair.

"From the beginning, then," Holmes waved his pipe towards him, before holding the end of his pipe towards Amelia. Amelia slipped a match out of the box he had handed to her before and lit the match, the flame bursting into life as she lit his pipe for him, Holmes giving her a nod as he slipped his pip between his lips and refocused his attention onto Lestrade.

Lestrade lifted his glass up his mouth and took a sip, slighter smaller than before, swallowing his mouthful as he lowered the glass back down to lightly rest on his leg. He took a deep, steadying breath, looking directly at the two detectives.

"A woman dressed as a bride began firing two long-barrelled pistols into the crowd of a busy street," he began to explain, "She was standing on the balcony of her home, firing seemingly random shots into the crowd below. Witnesses all stated that she repeatedly said the word 'you' before firing at people below, causing hysteria and panic amongst onlookers".

Holmes suddenly held up his hand, lowering his pipe, "When was this?"

"Yesterday morning".

Amelia frowned, her expression thoughtful, could it be possible that this bride's intended victim had been amongst the crowd, but in order to hide the truth, she instead fired seemingly randomly? It was certainly a possibility, but why was she dressed as a bride? That aspect of Lestrade's story stood out most clearly to her, it was such a very odd thing of note but it must hold some sort of significances, otherwise why would the woman be dressed in such a manner at all? Perhaps her intended victim was her husband…but of course, surely Lestrade would have mentioned that the woman's husband had been amongst the crowd, but he had made no mention of it, no mention of anyone being killed on the street, in fact. The notion of this woman dressed as a bride puzzled her, more so then the idea that she would be firing into a crowd of strangers for seemingly no reason.

"Tell me more about this bride," she said to Lestrade, eyeing him intently, "You surely have more of a description then just simply that she was dressed as a bride, give me details on how exactly she looked".

Lestrade carefully placed his glass down on the table beside Watson's armchair and reached into the pocket of his grey coat, pulling out a small leather bound note book. He flipped it open and searched through the pages, stoping when he found what he was looking for, while Watson waited poised with his own fountain pen and notepad to take note, "'White as death…'" he read aloud, "'Mouth like a crimson wound'".

Holmes suddenly uncrossed his legs and rose from his chair, sticking his pipe in his mouth as he walked across to the other side of the room, his back to them as he stared up at the wall above the couch. Slowly, he took his pipe out of his mouth, "Poetry or truth?" he asked, Amelia still looking thoughtful.

"Many would say they're the same thing".

"Yes, idiots. Poetry or truth?"

Lestrade hesitated slightly, opening his mouth as he glanced at Amelia and then back over towards Holmes's back, "I saw her face myself," he informed them, his voice growing tighter, "Afterwards".

Amelia frowned deeply as Holmes turned back around, "What else happened?" she questioned.

He took a deep breath, looking down at his notepad in his lap, but he wasn't reading his notes, "The bride continued to fire into the crowd for a few minutes," he said grimly, "When she suddenly stopped and was heard to say 'You? Or me?' Witnesses all say that she then lifted one of the pistols into her mouth and…"

"Fired," she cut across him, her voice quiet as her eyes came to land on something over his right shoulder. It should have been a simple, open and shut suicide, but there was still something about it all that puzzled her, the manner of dress for starters. Many women liked to be buried in their wedding dresses, she knew that, it was hardly difficult to imagine that there might be those who would even consider killing themselves dressed in their wedding gown, it did send a rather clear message that perhaps it was something to do with the bride's husband or fiancé, but it still struck her as odd, considering all the rest of the details that they had heard. Why fire into the crowd? Why paint one's face in such a manner? And for what reason did this woman have for ending her life in such a very public way? None of it made sense to her.

Holmes sighed loudly in exasperation, "Really, Lestrade," he rolled his eyes, walking back over to retake his seat, "A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party," he settled himself comfortably into his chair, looking at Amelia, "I fear Scotland Yard has reached a new low".

Amelia gave him a quick, disapproving look before looking back across to Lestrade, who was slumped slightly in his chair. He looked like a mess, still terribly pale and with his greying hair dishevelled; clutching his half-full glass still, "I imagine that you must have more to the story to tell us?" she raised her eyebrows at him, and Lestrade nodded wordlessly.

"What was her name?" Watson asked, looking up from his own notepad to Lestrade, "The bride?"

"Emelia Ricoletti," Lestrade replied, glancing over to him before focusing back onto Holmes and Amelia, "Yesterday was her wedding anniversary…" Amelia nodded to herself, well, that helped explain why she was wearing the wedding dress, but it also made her even more certain that the husband must have had some sort of involvement, "The police, of course, were called," he continued, his voice growing slightly softer, "And her body taken to the morgue," he lifted his glass up to his mouth, taking a large gulp.

"Standard procedure," Holmes snapped impatiently, frowning at Lestrade in annoyance, "Why are you telling us what maybe be presumed?"

He lowered the glass, swallowing his mouthful as he looked at them grimly, "Because of what happened next," he said darkly, "Limehouse, just a few hours later. Mr Ricoletti was leaving an opium den…"

"Sorry, what is his full name?" Watson cut in, quickly scribbling away what Lestrade was saying.

"Thomas Ricoletti," he clarified, and Watson nodded as he wrote, "Emelia Ricoletti's husband…"

Holmes shot Watson a quick look, knowing he was only getting the man's full name so that he could possibly use it for a future story, if they did take the case, "Presumably on his way to the morgue to identify her remains," he said, turning back towards Lestrade.

Lestrade took another drink from his glass, finishing the last of it as he nodded, looking down at the ground, "As it turned out, he was saved the trip," he told them quietly, earning curious looks from Holmes and Amelia. He took a deep breath and looked up to them, "Witnesses at the scene reported seeing a hansom cab arrive and a woman, dressed in a white dress and a veil, step out, holding a shotgun," Amelia sat forward on the armrest, listening intently, "They said that she appeared to be singing as she aimed the gun at Mr Ricoletti, who demanded to know who she was and why she was threatening him with a gun. Witnesses stated that the man was heard to say his wife's name and that he seemed to be very confused, just before a constable arrived at the scene. He insists that the back of the women's head was covered in blood, his description of the bride matches perfectly with other witness reports from earlier that day from the first incident. The bride was then said to have fired twice in rapid succession at Mr Ricoletti, killing him instantly".

Holmes's eyebrows rose, glancing at Amelia, "'Till death us do part," he remarked, sounding far to cheerful then what would be considered decent after hearing such a gruesome tale, but Amelia didn't even bat an eye at his poor humour, Lestrade and Watson giving him a disproving look. He smiled faintly, "Twice, in this case".

"What a truly incredible tale, Lestrade," Amelia remarked, shaking her head as she looked back over to the Inspector, her mind positively buzzing with a million different thoughts and ideas. Emelia Ricoletti had killed herself in the most public and dramatic way that she could have and yet, several hours after her apparent death, she rises once more from the grave in order to murder her husband before disappearing once more. It was impossible for someone to rise from the dead, of course, and Amelia didn't believe in ghosts, so how could it be possible?

"Extraordinary," Watson breathed, frowning down at his lap.

"Impossible!" Mary shook her head, smiling very slightly in disbelief.

"Superb!" Holmes exclaimed, standing quickly, staring off at the wall over the couch once more, his expression filled with excitement, "Suicide as street theatre, murder by corpse. Lestrade, you're spoiling us," he quickly gave the Inspector a smile before looking over to John, "Watson, your hat and coat. Amelia…" he glanced back over his shoulder to his wife, already moving towards the door, "You will be needing your hat and coat, too".

Amelia broke into a wide smile and slipped off the armrest, smoothing the skirt of her dress down absently, "I left them on the hooks downstairs," she said, stepping around Lestrade, who had climbed onto his own feet, to start towards the landing door, "Oh, and you're things are down there still, too, my darling".

Watson frowned, slowly standing as he looked between the couple, "Where are we going?" he asked in confusion, truly disliking when they got like this, as though they instantly expected that he would know what they were planning to do just because they were seemingly able to read one another so well.

"To the morgue," Holmes called back into the living room, standing just outside the open door on the landing, pulling his dressing gown off and hanging it on a small hook on the wallpapered wall outside the door, grabbing his tweed blazer from off another hook beside it, "There's not a moment to lose…" he paused with his blazer still in hand, smiling as he looked back through the doorway to them, "Which one can so rarely say of a morgue".

"Oh, you are in a good mood, aren't you?" Amelia laughed, giving him a fond look as she came to stand in the doorway.

Mary, on the other hand, looked most displeased as she watched her husband slip his notebook away inside his pocket of his blazer, "And am I just to sit here?" she questioned, disgruntled. It never made sense to her why her husband seemed to be fine with the idea of going out on cases with Amelia, when the mere suggestions that she might be able to help was instantly lost on him.

"Not at all, my dear," Watson shook his head, turning towards her, giving her a little smile that looked very condescending to Amelia's eyes, "We'll be hungry later," he lightly tapped his finger beneath Mary's chin, instantly making the small spark of hope that had crossed her face disappear, but he didn't seem to notice as he clasped his hands behind his back and turned towards the landing door, "Holmes, just one thing?" he frowned slightly, glancing down at his front, "Tweeds, in a morgue?"

Holmes's considered it briefly, finishing buttoning his blazer around his middle, "Needs must when the devil drives, Watson," he told him, before turning to head off down the stairs.

Amelia gave Watson a look, personally feeling that he really ought to be more concerned about his wife and not about whether wearing tweeds to a morgue was strictly correct…and if she wasn't worried about what clothing was right to be worn where, that said a lot. Still, she had long since come the realisation that attempting to get Watson to see how very old fashioned his ideals about women was when it came to Mary was a waste of time, he was so convinced that his wife was supposed to be a certain way that he failed to see that Mary was more capable then he realised. Just before she began to follow after Holmes, she caught Mary's eye and gave her a sympathetic look, truly wishing that Watson would open his eyes and see for himself that Mary could be of great help to their cases, regardless of her gender or the fact that she was his wife, but she wasn't sure if that would ever happen. She truly was very lucky to have such an unconventional husband.

 _ **And finally I finish this chapter, I've started my nursing course, so I'm writing between doing my homework, but I mostly had this chapter already written and the next chapter is short, so I was able to finish them both almost in the same day, so that's good news. We finally get to see these children, I kind of figured that to Sherlock's mind, Amelia would likely name her daughter Agatha based off her favourite author, but it's not necessarily what she actually would call her daughter.**_

 _ **I do have Amelia's outfit for this chapter, but since the next website I'm using doesn't have any Victorian clothing, I've had to be creative and find images off the web to make an outfit, but you can find it on my Tumblr and Pinterest. Next chapter, Amelia is quite protective of her friends, Watson is naïve, and Holmes's really isn't a fan of one of Amelia's friends. Tell me what you thought, please review :)**_

 _ **Guest reviews:**_

 _ **Guest:**_ _ **Aww, I'm so happy you liked the last chapter; I hope this one was worth the wait :)**_

 _ **LadyRedStar:**_ _ **Yep, kids, it's actually very interesting to play with, since Amelia's never been around kids before, so it's interesting to see that motherly side of her. I hope you liked it, thanks for the review :)**_

 _ **Waterlily91:**_ _ **I haven't stopped, not by a long shot. I'm so happy you're enjoying the stories, Victorian Sherlock really is quite different from modern day Sherlock, he's more of a gentlemen, I feel, then his modern counterpart. Thanks for the review :)**_


	3. Chapter 3 The Writing on the Wall

_**The Writing on the Wall**_

Amelia peered through the darkened window of the couch that they were riding in through the streets of London, Holmes sitting beside her, while Watson and Lestrade sat on the leather bench like seat opposite them, snippets of weak light casting shadows over their faces as they rode on through the streets, mist hanging thickly in the chill of the December evening as rain lightly hit the windows.

"Who's on mortuary duty?" Holmes asked Lestrade after several minutes of silence.

Lestrade sighed very slightly, his eyes flickering briefly over to Amelia and then back to him, "You _know_ who".

He grimaced slightly and looked out of his window in annoyance, " _Always_ him," he grumbled.

Amelia smirked lightly, looking amused, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the rain washed window of her side of the couch, pleased that her expression was hidden by the poor lighting. Soon enough they arrived outside Scotland Yard, Campbell climbing down from the front the couch and moving to open the door, one hand holding a very large black umbrella and the other held out to help Amelia down onto the wet street, her boots splashing slightly and the bottom of her skirt already soaking with water, but at least she wouldn't look like a drowned rat by the time she got indoors, gratefully accepting the umbrella from Campbell and holding it above herself, while Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade climbed out behind her, their hats and thick woollen coats offering them far more protection against the rain then her own hat or cloak would have.

They quickly made their way into the building, Amelia closing her umbrella as she stepped over the threshold into the entrance, keeping a hold of the handle as she followed after Lestrade down a long hallway and through a doorway at the very end, walking down a set of steps to the basement level, the air growing colder and more stale as they reached the bottom of the steps, gas lamps lining the brick walls as the ceiling began to curve, reminding Amelia of a train tunnel. They moved down a short, very dark hallway before reaching an old wooden door that Holmes threw open, striding inside the large mortuary room, filled with several wooden tables scattered the length of the room, most of which covered by a white sheet. One such table with a figure covered by a sheet had chains binding it to the table.

"Oh, you must be joking…" Amelia muttered in exasperation at the sight, shaking her head as she came to stand beside Holmes, looking at the metal chains.

Holmes narrowed his eyes on the chains, "Please tell me which idiot did this!" he exclaimed, exchanging a irritated look with Amelia, both unable to believe how absurd everyone was acting, as though someone might actually be able to return from the dead.

In the middle of the room, two men who had been quietly speaking to one another upon their entry stopped and turned towards them, Amelia unsurprised to find Anderson frowning very slightly at them, his front covered by a leather apron. He walked down the room towards them.

"It's for everyone's safety," he told them firmly.

Watson moved around the other side of the table and grabbed the edge of the sheet covering the figure's face, pulling it back to reveal a dark haired women beneath, still wearing an ivory, high necked wedding dress and with makeup smudged all down her face, her lips worst of all, once painted bright red now having bleed around her lips and cheeks, her eyes closed and her skin taking on a bluish tone beneath the makeup. She was very obviously dead; Amelia could see the very large, gaping, bloody hole at the back of her head without even trying to see it, but she had seen worse during her career.

Watson shook his head in disbelief, "This woman is dead," he looked back to Anderson, unable to believe his excuse for chaining a woman's dead body to a table, "Half her head is missing! She's no threat to anyone!"

"Tell that to her husband," Anderson replied with a hint of mocking in his tone, pointing across to the other side of the room, towards a second body lying beneath a sheet, "He's under a sheet over there".

"Oh, this is absurd," Amelia frowned at him, "Surely you must have enough reason to know that it is impossible for this woman…" she pointed the end of her umbrella towards Emelia Ricoletti's body, not taking her gaze off Anderson, "This very _dead_ woman, to be able to commit murder when she was quite dead at the time that her husband also died. There is a logical explanation for the events that occurred in Limehouse last night and those events were not paranormal, I assure you".

Anderson shifted slightly beneath her gaze, before lifting his chin higher, "Stranger things have happened".

Amelia rolled her eyes and shook her head, while Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "Such as?" he demanded, annoyance lacing his voice, unable to believe that they were actually having this conversation with a so called adult. He doubted if William and Agatha would fail to see that there surely had to be a logical explanation behind this, and they weren't even five years old yet.

"Well…" he hesitated as they all looked at him, "Strange things".

"You're speaking like a child," Watson said dismissively, turning back towards Emelia Ricoletti's body, peering closer at the wound.

"You are speaking _worse_ than a child," Amelia huffed, shaking her head as she looked back at the body, eyeing the chains with a hint of disgust. She had always been taught to treat the dead with respect and dignity, this was not dignified, "Honestly, my four year olds demonstrate more intelligence," she frowned deeply, reaching out to lightly touch one of the links binding the woman's arms to the table at her sides, "These chains are a disgrace; they should be removed at once".

"This is clearly a man's work," Holmes remarked, looking back across to Anderson, "Where is he?"

Anderson frowned slightly, seeming quite insulted, but just as he opened his mouth to respond, the door behind them creaked open and they turned to see a rather small figure step into the room, shorter even then Watson, who was an inch shorter then Amelia, the man was hardly what you would call intermediating, but there was something more about him that gave an air of sternness. The man was dressed in a black suit, his brown hair combed neatly and with a small moustache, dark brown eyes narrowed on them.

"Holmes," he said in a deep, gruff voice.

Holmes sighed, earning a sharp, warning look from Amelia. He glanced at her and released another, long suffering sigh, "Hooper," he greeted in a forced polite tone, turning to incline his head towards the much shorter man.

Hooper arched an eyebrow, before glancing over to Amelia, giving her a slightly warming look, "Mrs Holmes, it's good to see you again," he nodded to her, walking towards them, holding out a hand as he neared Amelia.

"And you, Doctor Hooper," Amelia gave him a smile, accepting his offered hand, noting out of the corner of her eye with some amusement the annoyed look that crossed her husband's features, watching their exchange with a frown. She released his hand, raising her eyebrows polity, "How is your sister? I really must try to have tea with her".

"I'm sure she would be delighted, Mrs Holmes," he said lightly, giving her a tiny wink that she would have missed had she not been expecting it, giving her a very faint smile that Amelia struggled not to return with a wider grin, finding it positively hilarious that Molly Hooper, Doctor Hooper's so called sister, was one in the same person and yet, Holmes was none the wiser about it, even though he had meet Molly Hooper many times, Molly even having been one of the few people in attendance to their wedding. Hooper's eye landed on Anderson and suddenly, all of the warmth was gone, replaced by sternness and sharpness, "You," he snapped, glaring at Anderson, "Back to work".

Anderson's eyes widened and he almost frantically nodded, looking almost afraid, much to Amelia's amusement knowing the truth behind the moustache, rather enjoying watching Anderson scurrying away, pausing to grab a metal bucket and a mop that he had apparently been using to clean the floor before they had arrived. Hooper moved to stand around the other side of the table beside Watson, looking over the body to Holmes.

"So," he began, raising his eyebrows at Holmes, "Come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose".

Amelia lightly stepped on Holmes's foot as he opened his mouth, looking ready to snap something back, "Be nice, Sherlock," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth to him.

Holmes shot her a quick look, he never did understand why Amelia insisted upon being so nice to Hooper, what did it matter if she was close friends with his sister? Hooper was intelligent, which made him only slightly bearable, but his attitude towards their work…or rather _his_ work was sorely lacking, usually always filled with mocking and snide remarks that Holmes was more than happy to fire back at, of course Hooper was always far more respectful towards Amelia, there was never any mocking or little comments. He sighed again, turning back towards Hooper, deciding to perhaps _try_ to be civil, if only to spare himself from Amelia's annoyance.

"Is there anything to which you would like to draw our attention?" he asked Hooper, forcing his tone to be polite, turning his gaze onto the body instead.

"Nothing at all for _you_ , Mr Holmes," Hooper replied coldly, staring at him with a mocking glimmer in his cold, brown eyes, "You may leave any time you like".

"Hooper…" Amelia said sharply, giving him a deep frown. She knew why Hooper didn't like Holmes or Watson, well, most men really, after spending so many years desperately striving to be respected and forced to pretend to be someone that he, _she_ , wasn't, forced to live a double life just because of her gender. She understood why Hooper felt that way towards men in general, she sympathised entirely and knew that she probably would have been driven to do the same thing as Hooper had had she not meet Holmes. But not all men were so narrow minded, Amelia was positive that Holmes would keep Hooper's secret, possibly even Watson, though that might be a bit of stretch.

"Doctor Hooper," Lestrade cut in sternly, "I asked Mr Holmes..." Amelia cleared her throat pointedly, "…and Mrs Holmes to come here," he quickly corrected, his eyes flickering over to Amelia and back to Hooper, giving him a firm look, " _Co-operate_. That's an order".

Hooper stared at him for a moment before glancing at Holmes, who merely raised his eyebrows at him, his eyes narrowing very slightly before he took a long breath and looked down at the body, "There are two 'features of interest,' as you are always saying in Doctor Watson's stories," he began, jerking his head towards Watson as he spoke.

Holmes's head snapped up, startled, "I never say that," he said at once, quickly looking between Watson and Hooper.

"You do, actually," Watson told him slowly, shifting beneath Holmes's sharp gaze, "Quite a lot," he nodded.

Amelia smiled faintly before clearing her throat, "Please, Doctor Hooper," she gestured for Hooper to continue.

Hooper nodded to her, looking down at the body, "First of all, this is definitely Emelia Ricoletti," he said as they listened intently, Watson frowning while Amelia eyed the body more closely, "She has been categorically identified. Beyond a doubt it is her".

"Then who was that in Limehouse last night?" Watson asked, his frown deepening even more as he looked at Hooper, Holmes pulling a small magnifying glass out of his pocket and leaning down to examine the body's exposed face.

"That was _also_ Emelia Ricoletti".

"And yet that is impossible," Amelia shook her head, eyeing the body still, "At the time of Mr Ricoletti's death, Mrs Ricoletti was well and truly dead," she looked back across to Hooper, "It is _physically_ impossible for this woman to have murdered her husband".

"She was positively identified by her own husband seconds before he died," Hooper reminded her, while Amelia could only frown at the body, simply not seeing how it could be possible, "He had no reason to lie," he went on, glancing at Lestrade and Watson, "He could hardly be mistaken".

"The cabbie knew her too," Lestrade added, shaking his head, "There's no question it's her".

Watson looked back across to Amelia and Holmes, looking thoughtful and very confused, "But she can't have been in two places at the same time, can she?"

"No, Watson," Holmes agreed, straightening from where he had been busy still examining the bride's face, "One place is strictly the limit for the recently deceased".

He suddenly clicked his fingers and pointed at both detectives, his eyes widening in realisation, "Could it have been twins?" he asked quickly.

"No".

"Highly doubtful," Amelia shook her head dismissively. She tried hard not to picture her brother at the mention of twins, even after all these years and after everything that James had done, she still felt a sense of loss and sadness thinking of her brother, but she had more important concerns now, such as her family and her work. The ghosts of her past held little power over her life now.

Watson blinked, looking slightly confused, still pointing, "Why not?"

"Because it's never twins," Holmes rolled his eyes at the mere suggestion.

"Well…" Amelia paused, considering it, "Almost never," Holmes and Watson both looked at her curiously, making her shrug very slightly, Watson finally lowering his arm, "You never knew that my brother was a criminal, did you? Of course, it hardly counts since I never did keep the fact that I had a twin a secret".

Lestrade cleared his throat, drawing their attention back over to him, "Emelia was not a twin, nor did she have any sisters," he informed them, and Watson slowly nodded, looking determined again, "She had one brother who died four years ago".

Watson hummed lightly, shaking his head, still seeming quite determined that his idea should be considered more seriously, "Maybe it was a secret twin," he suggested, looking back to Holmes and Amelia.

Amelia actually blinked, while Holmes slowly turned his head towards him, disbelief written across his face, "A what?" he demanded, looking positively stunned that Watson could be seriously suggesting something so absurd as a 'secret twin'.

"A secret twin?" he repeated, speaking very carefully, so that there could be no mistake of what he had said, apparently not realising just how insane he was sounding right now.

Holmes stared at him, actually seeming speechless as he slowly looked at Amelia, as though to check that she had heard the same thing that he had. Amelia could only shake her head in exasperation and reach up to rub her forehead. And to think, right now she could have been at Baker Street, spending time with her children rather than listening to this nonsense.

"Watson," she began after a moment, her voice sounding slightly strained, struggling not to call him a complete idiot, like she truly felt like doing right now. Instead, she took a deep breath and lowered her hand from her head, forcing a gentle smile onto her lips, "There's no such thing as a 'secret twin'".

"Yes, there is," he insisted at once, nodding firmly. Amelia didn't even bother to hold back her groan of exasperation, wondering how Watson managed to become a doctor if this is his idea of solving the case, "You know?" he continued, looking between both detectives, "A twin that nobody knows about? This whole thing could have been planned".

"Since the moment of conception?" Holmes stared at him with wide, stunned eyes, "How breathtakingly prescient of her! It is _never_ twins, Watson," he finished sharply, frowning.

Amelia shook her head, eyeing him as though she was worried for Watson's mental stability, "What medical school did you attend again, Watson?" she asked, "I do hope it wasn't terribly expensive…"

Watson huffed, giving Amelia an annoyed look, "Then what's your theory?" he demanded, apparently quite upset, throwing Amelia another look, "Since you are apparently so cleaver, Mrs Holmes…"

She lifted her chin higher, more than ready to rise to the challenge, when Holmes cut across her, "More to the point…" he turned to Lestrade, frowning at him, "What's _your_ problem?"

Lestrade blinked and looked up to him, having been staring at the body. He looked at him blankly for a moment, before shaking his head, "I…I don't understand," he started in confusion, "What…?"

"Why were you so frightened? Nothing so far has justified your assault on my decanter, and why have you allowed a dead woman to be placed under arrest?"

"Ah," Hooper said suddenly, making them all turn towards him, still standing beside Watson on the other side of the table, "That would be the other feature of interest," he picked up the bride's right hand and held it up for them to see the index finger, which seemed to have a smear of blood on it, Holmes, Watson, and Amelia leaning closer to get a better look.

"A smear of blood on her finger," Watson said quietly, eyeing it as he straightened, "That could have happened any number of ways".

"Indeed," Hooper agreed, lowering the hand back down onto the table, focusing on Holmes and Amelia, his expression growing stern, "There's one other thing. It wasn't there earlier".

Amelia frowned, exchanging a quick look with Holmes, Amelia suddenly feeling a chill run down her spine. Of course, she didn't suddenly believe in the notion that someone could rise from the dead, but this whole case was certainly a puzzle with a truly creepy, morbid flair to it.

"And neither was that," Lestrade told them, pointing over towards a darkened wall on the left side of the room, behind them.

Holmes and Amelia moved to follow after him as he began to walk over towards the wall, intrigued to see what he was speaking off. He picked up a lit lantern sitting on a table pushed up against the wall and backed back a couple of steps, holding the lantern up so that the beam of light lit up the wall, the word 'YOU' scrawled across the white washed wall in dripping blood for them to see.

"Holmes," Watson breathed, a hint of fear colouring his tone, staring at the word with wide eyes.

"Gun in the mouth," Holmes said softly, eyeing the word, "A bullet through the brain, back of the head blown clean off," he frowned, his eyes distant, not really seeing the wall, "How could he survive?"

Amelia blinked in confusion, dragging her eyes off the word to look at her husband, concern washing over her as Watson seemed quite startled himself, "Holmes, you mean 'she,' yes?" she asked him, reaching out to lightly touch his arm.

"I'm sorry?" he questioned, his gaze still fixed on the wall.

"You said 'he' rather than 'she,'" she eyed him in increasing alarm, finding it very odd for him to make such a mistake, "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes," he nodded absently, "Yes, of course," he continued to stare at the wall, still seeming lost in his thoughts as Amelia looked worriedly back to Watson, finding him frowning in confusion, too. Suddenly, he jolted and blinked rapidly, making Amelia actually flitch at the sudden movement, "Well, thank you all for a fascinating case," he looked around the morgue, smiling very slightly before focusing on Lestrade, "I'll send you a telegram when I've solved it. Watson, Amelia?" he gave Watson and Amelia a quick glance, before turning and heading over to the door, disappearing outside, Lestrade trailing behind him.

Amelia watched him go in concern, wondering what on Earth had gotten to him lately, making all of those funny little comments that made no sense to what was going on, but she didn't move to follow him, nor did Watson, who instead turned back towards Hooper.

"Er, the gunshot wound was obviously the cause of death," he told him quickly, looking back down at the body, "But there are clear indicators of consumption. Might be worth a post mortem," he looked back up to Hooper, who was eyeing him with narrowed eyes, "We need all the information we can get".

He began to move towards the door, when Hooper said, "Oh, isn't he observant when Daddy's gone?" his tone scathing, smirking as Watson stopped and turned back around to face him.

Amelia sighed, looking warily between them both, "I really don't think that was needed, Hooper," she muttered sternly. Usually, she liked to try and avoid either Watson or Holmes remaining in the same room as Hooper for longer than truly needed out of concern that one of them may catch on to the truth, it was something that Hooper was usually quite pleased to do too, but not this time, apparently.

Watson cast Amelia a quick look and her worry increased, seeing a knowing glint in his eyes as he slowly walked closer to the table, looking back to Hooper, "I _am_ observant in some ways," he said quietly, looking Hooper up and down pointedly, "Just as Holmes is quite blind in others".

"Really?" Hooper said sarcastically, not seeming to notice that Anderson and a second man had stopped mopping the floors, obviously listening in to the conversation.

"Yes," he nodded, more firmly, "Really".

"Watson," Amelia said sharply, her eyes frantically moving between both of her friends, feeling her stomach drop as she realised that he knew. She edged closer to the table, lowering her voice to a whisper, "Don't do this, not here," she shot Anderson and the second man a hurried look, wishing they would just go away.

Watson, however, didn't seem to listen, no doubt still quite upset by Hooper's little remark, "Amazing what one has to do to get ahead in a _man's_ world," he stared at Hooper pointedly, before reaching up to doff his hat at him and sitting it back onto his head, catching Amelia's eye briefly before turning and walking towards the door.

Amelia swallowed and looked quickly back to Hooper, who had frozen in place, looking quite horrified that Watson had seen through his, her, disguise, "I'll speak with him," she assured 'him' in a whisper as Hooper gave her a stiff nod, before quickly turning in a flurry of skirts to dash after Watson. She quickly caught up to Watson, not caring about being proper as she reached out to grab the sleeve of his coat, stopping him just before the stairs. He glanced down at her hand in surprise before looking up to her face, "How long have you known?" she asked, her voice low still, knowing how these hallways could echo.

"Since our first meeting with Doctor Hooper," he replied, and Amelia sighed and released his sleeve, nodding grimly. He watched her keenly, "Holmes has no idea, does he?"

"Of course not. My husband may have a brilliant mind, but deduction reasoning is not a perfect science, Watson, it can be manipulated to suit one's own needs, if you know how to do it".

"And you do, of course?"

"Obviously," she struggled not to roll her eyes, knowing well enough that Watson, even after all these years, still struggled to believe that she could truly be as intelligent as any man, "If one understands how to deduce, then it is expected that they also know how to manipulate those deductions. Molly Hooper is quite different from her persona and any resemblance between them could easily be reasoned away with the story of them being siblings. It also helps matters that Holmes does dislike Hooper so".

"Intentionally on Miss Hooper's part, I would imagine".

"Indeed," Amelia nodded, giving him a careful, calculating look, "I would ask that you do not speak of this matter to anyone else, Watson, Miss Hooper has made many sacrifices to live this life and as her friend I will not allow it all to be in vain".

Watson raised his eyebrows at her, "And you are perfectly comfortable lying to your own husband?"

"All wives's lie about something, it would be terribly naïve of you to think otherwise, especially as a married man. The fact of the matter is that it is not my secret to tell, Miss Hooper has asked for my discretion and I will not reveal her secrets to anyone, not even my own husband".

He stared at her for a long moment, the lighting from the gas lamps along the walls playing shadows across his face, making it difficult to properly see his expression, "I have no intention of revealing Miss Hooper's secrets," he eventually replied, and Amelia inwardly sighed in relief, "I do, however, disagree with you notion that wives keep secrets from their husbands. Mary and I have no secrets," he said proudly, smiling very faint.

"Oh, Watson," she shook her head, fondness and amusement lacing her words, "You truly have no idea".

And with that, she lightly brushed passed him and began to make her way upstairs, one hand carefully lifting her skirts just above her shoes, leaving Watson to blink in puzzlement at her words.

….

Soon enough, Amelia found herself once again sitting in the back of her couch beside Holmes, Watson sitting across from them, a light frown still written across his features as he peered outside the darkened, wet window as they made their way back to Baker Street. After silence stretched on between the three with nothing but the light clinking of the horses hooves against the cobble stone road, Watson pulled his gaze off the rain washed window to look across the darkened cabin to them.

"Well?" he asked them, Holmes reaching up to take his pipe out of his mouth, his expression thoughtful, "Surely you must have some theory".

"Not yet," Holmes said quietly, his eyes distant, "These are deep waters, Watson. _Deep_ waters," he slowly looked outside his window, while Amelia and Watson watched him, "And I shall have to go deeper still".

Amelia frowned, her expression filling with concern, "Just not to deeply, my love," she said softly, reaching out to place her hand on his.

 _ **A little short, I know, but I felt like it flowed nicer if I ended it here before moving on to the next section of the story. Completely off topic, who else watched the Royal wedding? I really enjoyed it, some of those speeches…well, if you watched it, I think you'll know which one cracked me up the most. Oh, and playing find the celebrity amongst the crowd was fun, every time they moved the camera around the church I spotted someone I recognised, I positively adored some of the outfits on display and the bride's veil was simply beautiful.**_

 _ **Anyway, back onto the story, next time: tea parties, apparently Victorian Amelia enjoys teasing Holmes as much as her modern counterpart, and Watson really needs to watch what he's saying around Amelia. I hope you liked the chapter, tell me what you thought. Please review :)**_

 _ **Guest reviews:**_

 _ **Waterlily91:**_ _ **Aww, I'm so happy you like the kids; we'll be seeing a bit more of them soon. Oh, I know, it's so odd to write Watson like that, with this layer of condescending attitude to him, and it feels so odd to write him and Amelia with this sort of distance between them because I'm so used to writing them as being close, but nope. It's quite formal between them, Mrs Holmes for Amelia and Watson for John. I hope you liked the chapter, thanks for the review :)**_

 _ **LadyRedStar:**_ _ **I'm so pleased to hear that you enjoyed the previous chapter, it was so much fun to write. I've been waiting ages to get up to this episode. Ah, yes, the twins, I kind of see them as being a mix of Amelia and Holmes, only with swapped genders, I almost feel bad for having written them, only for them to not even be real. I love Mrs Hudson, she's so unassuming and then bang! She's got a sports car tucked away somewhere, I wonder if even Victorian Mrs Hudson has some sort of super fast carriage stashed somewhere…**_

 _ **Thanks for the review :)**_


	4. Chapter 4 The Obliquity of the Ecliptic

_**The Obliquity of the Ecliptic**_

Several months had passed since the mysterious case of Emelia Ricoletti and during that time, Holmes and Amelia had remained silent on the matter, much to Lestrade and Watson's annoyance, both detective's insisting whenever asked that they were merely awaiting more evidence to come to light before proceeding and that they hadn't forgotten about the case, regardless of how it might seem. Of course, the news had quickly spread of the possibility of a bride returning from the dead to murder her husband, and all of London was talking about it, many in hushed, frightened whispers as though fearing that even mentioning it would make this Bride rise again to kill them. Perhaps they had good reason to be afraid, after all, a string of very similar murders had began to grip the country with more and more men being found dead, much in the same manner as Mr Ricoletti, with evidence to suggest that the Bride had returned to do the deed, but Amelia and Holmes both scoffed at the idea, neither showing very much interest, much to Watson's confusion when he had attempted to speak to them on the matter.

In fact, over the course of the past few months, Amelia had found herself quite happy to put aside the matters of this so called 'ghostly Bride,' and instead enjoyed spending time with her children and focusing on her more political aspirations within the Suffragette movement, all this nonsense about someone being able to rise again from the grave was really quite dull to her, even if she had to confess to still being puzzled by how Emelia Ricoletti was seemingly able to appear to be in two places at once. But she expected that they would solve it eventually, they usually did.

"Would you like some tea, madam?" Agatha childlike voice broke through Amelia's thoughts, making her blink and return her attention to were the little girl was holding a small, pretty white china teapot that had little pink and blue flowers painted onto the side of it, hovering the spout over Amelia's little matching cup that was sitting on the table before her.

They were in the twin's nursery having a little tea party, the small table that was usually used for the twin's meals covered by a table cloth and with Agatha's new tea set that she had received for her fifth birthday laid out neatly over the table top, two of her dolls and one of her teddy bears sitting propped up around the table with cups. William had refused to join the tea party, far happier to sit on his bed on the other side of the room and play with his toy soldiers that Watson had given him for his birthday.

Amelia smiled, amused by Agatha's attempt to sound grownup, as though they truly were having a proper tea party, "Oh, that would be lovely," she nodded, watching as Agatha happily pretended to pour tea into the small cup, Amelia picking it up and mock drinking from it.

"Careful!" Agatha suddenly cried, very nearly startling Amelia. She looked at her very seriously and Amelia realised with a touch of trepidation just how good at acting she was already, her facial expression very convincing, "It's hot, you will burn yourself, Mama".

"Oh, yes, how terribly silly of me," she carefully placed the cup back down in the saucer. She watched with fondness and amusement as Agatha began pouring mock tea into the rest of the cups, making quite a show of it all, clearly trying to act as though she was a great lady serving tea to her friends.

It always delighted her to see Agatha and William simply being like normal children, she had feared that given how very different her and Holmes's lifestyle was to other parents, that it might affect the twins, but it hadn't, or at least not as much as she had feared. They still enjoyed playing with their toys and while they probably did have a tendency to play slightly different games, such as Agatha's love of using her dolls to make mock murder scenes and William's interest in poisonous substances, Amelia wasn't overly concerned. She believed that William's interest in poisons was largely down to Holmes's encouragement, anyway, and Agatha positively adored getting Holmes's to play dolls with her, making mock murder scenes was a good way to do that. Holmes's would never admit it aloud to anyone, but Amelia knew that he truly did enjoy playing with the children when they didn't have a case, though he did like to act as though he didn't.

"Would you like a biscuit, Mama?"

"That would be lovely, thank you," Amelia nodded, reaching out to pluck a pretend biscuit off the small plate that Agatha was offering her, even pretending to sit the biscuit down on her saucer. She glanced back over to William, who seemed to be attempting to make a mock battle field on his pale pink bedspread, "Would you like some tea and biscuits, Will?" she asked him, not wishing for him to feel as though she was ignoring him.

"No, thank you, Mama," he replied, not even glancing at her, his forehead creased in concentration as he carefully lined his wooden soldier's up. He looked so much like Holmes's, his dark curls covering his forehead; Amelia didn't have the heart to ask Nanny Hawkins to brush his hair flat like Holmes usually styled his.

Footsteps sounded on the landing outside, just as the door opened and Nanny Hawkins stepped into the room, Amelia having insisted that she go and do as she wished while she spent most of the morning playing with the children. When she didn't have a case or any meetings to attend to, she did enjoy taking the time to simply spend time alone with the twins, sometimes even Holmes's would join them, but he was rather preoccupied that morning.

"Mrs Holmes," Nanny Hawkins began, "I just saw Detective Inspector Lestrade arrive".

Amelia's eyebrows rose, "I wasn't aware that he would be visiting today," she said thoughtfully, though she had a fairly good idea of why he would be coming to see them. She carefully pushed her chair back and stood, running a hand down the front of her red and cream, two tone coloured dress, the front white section of the dress covered in little, finely stitched pearls and embroidered with white silk thread, glinting when the light caught it, which also ran around the high necked collar and the cuffs of her sleeves, her waist tightly bound. Her ruby and diamond hanging earrings swung as she reached up to absently smooth her styled hair, her black boots just visible beneath her skirts, "I'd best go down to see him," she said, giving Agatha a small, apologetic look, "I am sorry, my sweetheart, but you are going to have to excuse me from tea".

Agatha pouted, "But, Mama…"

"Later, my darling," she promised her, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her curls, "I have to work now".

Agatha looked ready to argue, but quickly closed her mouth as Nanny Hawkins's gave her a quick, stern look. Amelia imagined that she would probably be getting a little lecture about pouting once she left the room, but the children had to learn that they couldn't pout and get what they wanted, but they were usually very good and well-behaved, Amelia had ensured that from a very young age they would have excellent manners. She gave the children one last look before turning and crossing the room to the door, lightly closing it behind her as she began to head down stairs, making sure to take her white lace gloves out of her pocket and tug them on before reaching the next landing.

Holmes's was just where she had left him that morning, wearing his dark blue dressing gown over his day clothes, busy pacing back and forth before the fireplace with a red leather bound book open in his hands in the small office between the hallway leading to their bedroom and the sitting room. A large table covered in books and paperwork was positioned in the middle of the room, Holmes on the far side, while Lestrade was on the other side of the table, sitting in a chair close to the door, looking slightly awkward as Holmes's appeared to completely ignore his presence.

Amelia watched the scene for a moment from the doorway, curious to see if Holmes's would actually speak to their guest, but after waiting for a full minute, Holmes flipping through his book without a single word or glance up, it became very clear to her that Lestrade was being ignored. She shook her head and lightly lifted her hand up to lightly wrap her knuckles against the door before stepping fully in to the room. Lestrade quickly stood, as was polite and respectful when a lady entered a room, but Holmes's merely glanced at her and back down to his book, not even faltering in his pacing to greet her, though Amelia had known him long enough to barely notice.

"Mrs Holmes," Lestrade greeted her, holding his leather gloves in his hands.

"Inspector," she inclined her head, "Please, sit," she waved a hand back towards his chair, which he slowly sank back down onto, toying with his gloves in his lap. She observed him curiously, "I imagine that you must be here to discuss these murders that had been popping up more frequently of late?"

He sighed gravely, looking quite tired, "Five of them now," he nodded, looking up to her as Amelia moved to sit on the edge of the desk, shifting a small pile of books aside to make room. She didn't care if it might not be completely proper, it was her home and she would sit where she wished, and it wasn't as if Lestrade was a client, "All the same," he went on, "Every one of 'em".

"Hush, please," Holmes said suddenly as Amelia and Lestrade looked over to him, his dressing gown lightly billowing behind him as he paced, flipping onto the next page, "This is a matter of supreme importance".

Amelia shook her head at him, "Oh, honestly…" she muttered, knowing perfectly well what he was doing, or more importantly _why_ he was doing it.

Lestrade, on the other hand, looked confused, "What is?" he asked him.

"The obliquity of the ecliptic," Holmes replied, looking intently at his current page, "I have to understand it".

He looked even more confused, glancing at Amelia, who merely shrugged lightly, not having a clue either. He looked back to Holmes, "What is it?"

"I don't know," he finally glanced up, a brief look of annoyance crossing his face, "I'm still trying to understand it".

"I thought you understood everything".

Amelia laughed, loudly, making Holmes look up from his book to fix her with a small glare, not that she cared, she knew there was no real anger or irritation behind it, "He does rather enjoy giving off that impression, doesn't he?" she smirked, her eyes fixed on her husband.

Holmes didn't lower his gaze from her, "It would be an appalling waste of brain space," he said, slightly defensively as he looked back across to Lestrade, Amelia shaking her head, "I specialise".

"You can't even admit that you don't know everything, can you?" she remarked, eyeing him with a knowing look, which Holmes's pointedly ignored, turning his attention back onto his book. Her smirk grew, watching him grimace slightly at something written on the page, obviously not really understanding it. He did so love to act as though he knew everything, but not even Sherlock Holmes knew everything, she rather loved having the chance to remind him of that, too.

Lestrade frowned, looking quite puzzled as Holmes began pacing again, "What's so important about this?" he questioned.

Holmes cast him a quick, irritated look, "What's so important about five boring murders?" he snapped, raising his voice.

"Shh!" Amelia hushed him, her eyes moving up to the ceiling above their heads, not wishing for the children to hear him shouting, though they were probably quite used to it.

"They're not boring!" Lestrade argued with a hint of anger colouring his tone, his frown deepening, "Five men dead! Murdered in their own homes, rice on the floor, like at a wedding, and the word 'YOU' written in blood on the wall!" he angrily pointed at the opposite wall to emphasise his words, but Holmes merely continued to read his book, still pacing, absently pressing his right hand against his lips in concentration, while Amelia raised her eyebrows at the Inspector, "Uh, it's-it's _her_!" he burst out, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration that neither of them seemed to care, "It's-it's the Bride. Somehow she's risen again!"

Amelia rolled her eyes, "Oh, not all that 'rise from the dead' nonsense again," she shook her head, giving Lestrade a exasperated look, "Honestly, Lestrade, you are so blinded by this notion that the Bride has returned from the grave that you fail to see what is obvious," she glanced over her shoulder to Holmes, who was still reading his page, "We solved these murders the second we saw them in the paper".

He stared at her in disbelief, his eyes widening, "You _can't_ have solved it!" he exclaimed, actually sounding a little upset about it, too.

"Of _course_ we solved it, the answer is practically staring you in the face, if you would only open your mind to more possibilities then someone returning from the dead. Do please use logic, Lestrade".

Holmes stopped pacing and turned to face Lestrade, who looked quite startled by Amelia's insult, which sounded like something that Holmes himself would say, rather than her, "It's perfectly simple," he told him, speaking very quickly, "'The Incident of the Mysterious Mrs Ricoletti', 'the Killer from Beyond the Grave,' has been widely reported in the popular press. Now people are disguising their own dull little murders as the work of a ghost to confuse the impossible imbecilic Scotland Yard," Lestrade stared back at him, gaping at him in shock, "There you are: solved," he slammed the book shut, gently placing it on the table, "Pay Mrs Hudson a visit on your way out. She likes to feel involved," he rolled his eyes impatiently, waving a hand towards the landing door.

Lestrade looked down at his lap for a long moment, the fire softly crackling in the grating as silence filled the room, Holmes still looking quite annoyed as Amelia looked expectantly at Lestrade, knowing he wouldn't stay silent for long. And just as she had expected, his asked a moment later, "You sure?"

"Completely," Amelia said at once, not even blinking.

Holmes nodded, "Now, go away," he gave him a pointed look and waved his hand even more impatiently towards the doorway, before turning towards the open sitting room door, "Watson!" he called, making Amelia sigh, "Amelia and I are ready. Get your hat and boots. We have an important appointment".

Amelia glanced at Holmes and then back through the doorway of the very empty sitting room, shaking her head almost sadly. Watson had moved out some time ago now, but Holmes still did have a habit of acting as though he was still living with them, though where he thought Watson was supposed to be sleeping when the twins now had his old room, she had no idea. She had grown so used to Holmes slipping back into the old habit of calling for Watson; she barely even blinked any more, but simply gently reminded him that Watson was living with Mary now.

"Holmes," she began quietly, just as Lestrade rose from his chair and cast Watson's very empty old armchair a slightly puzzled look, "Watson doesn't live with us anymore, remember?"

Holmes paused in the process of cleaning up some of his notes, surprise crossing his face as he looked at her, "He doesn't, does he?" he looked briefly thoughtful, frowning at her, "Who have I been talking to all this time? You were upstairs with the twins since breakfast".

Amelia gave him a pointed look, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly in a small smile, though she did find it a little sad. He truly did miss Watson, she knew he did, even now after all this time of them living separately those old habits hadn't died.

Lestrade glanced over at the empty armchair and back to Holmes, "Well, speaking on behalf of the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard…" he looked directly at the chair as he spoke, "That chair is definitely empty".

Holmes frowned again and slowly looked back over towards the chair, "It is, isn't it?" he sighed very slightly, when he suddenly brightened and looked back to Amelia, "Works surprisingly well, though. I actually thought he was improving," he gave her a faint smile before looking back down at his paperwork and books, shuffling them around.

Amelia shook her head in amusement, slipping off the edge of the table, "I'll send Watson a telegram, I suppose," she remarked, giving Lestrade a quick nod of goodbye before turning to head off down the short hallway to her bedroom to fetch her hat, Holmes's footsteps trailing behind her, leaving Lestrade to see himself out.

….

An hour later, Amelia found herself sitting beside Holmes in the back of their coach carriage, Watson sitting across from them as the coach moved swiftly through the sunlight filled streets of London, the British weather, for once, quite nice. Amelia had been intending to attend a suffragette afternoon tea with Miss Hooper after luncheon, but she had sent a telegram after first sending one to Watson baring her sincere regrets and apologies for having to miss tea. She would attend the next one, after all, she was doing exactly what the movement was attempting to gain for all women, she doubted her fellow suffragette's would begrudge her one missed meeting. In any case, she would speak to Miss Hooper later and ask if there was anything of great importance that she missed.

"The what of the what?" Watson frowned at Holmes in confusion, who had just begun to explain to him why he had practically summoned him to Baker Street and promptly ushered him into the back of the coach, almost the moment that he had stepped out of his handsome cab.

"The obliquity of the ecliptic," Holmes repeated at once, while Amelia shook her head lightly in amusement, making the smell, red fabric flowers on her black hat flutter.

Watson sighed, looking outside the carriage window, "'Come at once,' Mrs Holmes's telegram said," he said, apparently starting to realise that perhaps he had been deceived, once again, by Holmes and Amelia's dramatics, "I assumed that it was important".

"Why, of course it's important, Watson," Amelia smiled, glancing sideways at her husband, who was frowning at Watson. She looked across to Watson, giving him a pointed look, "Sherlock has been pouring over books _all_ morning, haven't you, darling?" she raised her eyebrows at Holmes, turning back to him as he narrowed his eyes at her, "Oh, go on, explain to Watson and I what the obliquity of the ecliptic means, it's truly thrilling".

Holmes's eyes her closely, but he was also never one to back down from a chance to prove his intelligence, as Amelia knew very well, "The obliquity of the ecliptic," he began in a very dignified manner, "It's the inclination of the Earth's equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane".

Watson caught Amelia's eye and scoffed, looking back over to Holmes's with a knowing look, "Have you been swotting up?"

"Why would I do that?"

"To sound clever…"

"I _am_ clever," Holmes replied instantly, giving him a slightly offended frown.

"Of _course_ you are, my darling," Amelia cooed lightly, giving him a humouring smile that one might expect a mother to give to their child. Holmes's shot her a quick look, apparently not appreciating it.

Watson looked amused, eyeing Holmes, "Yes, I do believe that I'm beginning to understand what you mean, Mrs Holmes," he commented lightly, and Amelia inclined her head towards him, her eyes glimmering in the dim lighting of the coach cabin.

Holmes looked between them both, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, "What do you understand?" he questioned.

He merely smiled faintly, turning his gaze onto the window beside him, watching as the builder's outside passed them by, "I deduce we're on our way to see someone cleverer than you, Holmes," he said, still not looking at him.

Holmes looked back outside his own window, irritation and something close to embarrassment crossing his features, though he tried hard to hide it. Amelia watched the side of her husband's face closely, her lips slightly lifted at the edges as she observed his expression, positively delighting in the chance to see his ego be knocked down a peg or two. He needed moment's like this every now and again, just to remind him that he wasn't the smartest person in the world, not to mention how amusing it was for herself and Watson to witness.

"Shut up," he muttered after a moment of silence, rather sulkily.

Amelia struggled to stop herself from laughing; instead settling for smiling softly to herself and looking outside the window, her years of preparation of joining London's society had provided her with an excellent skill set of concealing her true emotions. Her French governess would likely be quite proud, though given that she chose to use her skill more for her work purposes and not for the sake of maintaining the appearance of a lady, she imagined her old governess probably wouldn't be overly pleased, after all.

Soon enough, the carriage began to slow as they pulled up just on the corner of a street that had been blocked off for trade business. Campbell quickly jumped down and moved around to open the door, Holmes and Watson, ever the gentlemen, not so much as moving to climb out before Amelia had climbed down gracefully with one hand lightly held in Campbell's gloved one, releasing her the second both feet had touched the ground. Holmes and Watson followed close behind her; Holmes's offering his wife his elbow before they began to set off down the street towards a large, white building with a small plaque on the wall, reading 'The Diogenes Club'. Typically, women were not so much as permitted inside the club, however, when your brother-in-law practically formed the club to begin with and had full run of the place, certain allowances were allowed.

They swiftly made their way up the marble stairs and inside, where a doorman dressed in a red livery and golden trimming greeted them with a nod, not so much as making any move to attempt to stop Amelia as he opened the large door for them. They stepped through the threshold and into the completely silent room within, the walls covered in dark wooden panelling and a large, ornate rug covering the floor, the air tinged with the faint smell of cigar smoke, while more men dressed in the same red and gold livery walked throughout the room, carrying silver trays with drinks on them. The only sound within the room came from the ticking clock on the wall. Amelia recalled the first time she had entered the club, the silence had been quite disconcerting at first, but she had come to quite enjoy the peacefulness that it provided after the bustle of the London streets, though she still felt it absurd that woman were ordinarily not allowed inside.

Holmes approached the front desk where an elderly man stood behind it, dressed in the same uniforms as the others. The man gave them a polite smile and lifted his finger in greeting, Holmes quickly removing his gloves and sticking them inside his pocket, before giving the man a smile and lifting his hands up to sign, ' _Good morning, Wilder. Is my brother in_?'

Wilder nodded in response and began to sign back, ' _Naturally, sir. It's breakfast time'_.

Amelia struggled to hold back a light giggle at that, exchanging a silent look with Holmes, holding her hands up to sign, ' _When is it not a meal time for, Mycroft_?' she shook her head, thinking of her brother-in-law.

Holmes gave her a very small smile, before turning back to sign to Wilder, ' _The Stranger's Room_?' Wilder nodded, confirming it as Holmes smiled happily and glanced at Watson, who looked slightly confused by everything that was going on, though he appeared to be trying to follow along. He held his hand out towards Watson, turning back to Wilder, ' _This gentlemen is my guest_ ,' he signed, before gesturing over to Amelia, ' _And you remember Mrs Holmes, of course'_.

' _Yes, of course, sir_ ,' Wilder nodded with a bright smile as he signed, inclining his head towards Amelia, who returned his smile with a gentle one of her own, ' _It is good to see you again, Mrs Holmes. And Doctor Watson, a pleasure, of course_ ,' he turned his attention onto Watson, signing to him, ' _Enjoyed 'The Blue Carbuncle,' sir'_.

Holmes and Amelia both looked across to Watson standing on Amelia's left, only to find the man staring back at Wilder, frowning very slightly in confusion. Amelia struggled to hold back an exasperated sigh, her husband not even bothering to hide his own eye roll as she reached out to lightly nudge Watson's arm with her elbow. He jumped very slightly and looked quickly over to her, before hurriedly turning back towards Wilder as Amelia gave him a pointed look. Honestly, sometime's she did wonder about Watson's manners, he could go from being a complete gentlemen to…well, _this_.

Watson slowly lifted his hand up towards his mouth, looking mildly nervous as he signed, ' _Thank you_ ,' he nodded to Wilder as he continued silently, his signing quite slow, ' _I…am…glad…you…liked…it. You are very…ugly'_.

Amelia gave him a startled looked, her eyes widening as Holmes stared at him in shock and disproval. Wilder shifted slightly, frowning deeply at Watson, signing, ' _I beg your pardon_?'

' _Ugly_ ,' Watson signed, completely oblivious to what he was truly saying to the poor man, while Amelia could only watch on in muted horror. It would have been quite amusing, had it been anyone but Wilder, who happened to be an ex-soldier and highly regarded by everyone who meet him, including her, ' _What you said about 'The Blue Fishmonger_ ,' he went on, growing more confidant, ' _Very ugly…I am glad you liked my potato'_.

Wilder blinked in bewilderment, slowly pointing towards his own chest before slowly looking across to Holmes and Amelia, all the while Watson simply smiled and clasped his hands behind his back, apparently quite proud of his frankly atrocious sign language skills.

' _Oh my God, Watson_ ,' Amelia signed to the man, grimacing, hoping that if he wasn't able to understand what she was signing, he might be able to read her expression, ' _Stop, just stop_ ,' she cast Holmes a look, shaking her head grimly, ' _To much dancing practice, Sherlock'_.

Watson looked blankly at her, clearly not having a clue what on Earth she was trying to say, apparently not even being able to understand her expression, "Sorry, what?" he asked aloud, not thinking first.

Holmes rolled his eyes and turned to stride off in the direction of the Stranger's Room, where Mycroft was no doubt waiting for them. Amelia gave Watson a disapproving look, shaking her head sharply before signing a quick apology to Wilder and moving to follow her husband off down the hallway. She easily caught up to him, her small heeled boots clicking against the wooden floorboards as they moved down the panelled hallway, Watson's footsteps quickly joining theirs. They soon reached a wooden door at the end of the hallway and Holmes pushed it open without bothering to knock, revealing a very large man sitting with his back to them in a chair, so large, in fact, that he was lucky to be able to fit on the chair at all, while tables covered with food surrounded him on each side. Cakes, tarts, even a large ham was sitting partly sliced on a silver tray. The smell of food within the room was almost overwhelming. Holmes and Amelia, however, didn't even pause at the sight of the scene before them; instead they calmly walked around the man to stand before him, watching as he lightly rolled a green grape between his thick fingers.

"To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot," he remarked, popping the grape into his mouth and chewing, looking up to his brother and sister-in-law.

"Handy, really," Holmes said lightly, while Watson closed the door behind him, "As your ever-expanding backside is permanently glued to it," he clasped his hands behind his back, just as Watson moved around the chair to join them, only to stop and stare at the sight, "Good morning, brother mine," he nodded to him as he finished.

Mycroft continued chewing, smiling very slightly, "Sherlock," he greeted, "And my dear sister, Amelia".

"It's been quite some time, Mycroft," Amelia smiled at him, clasping her hands together down the front of her skirts. She raised an eyebrow, observing him, "In fact, I do believe that the last time we saw one another, you merely had one chin. It's most impressive".

He laughed, giving her a little wink that only made her smile widen. Watson looked between them in shock, seeming quite stunned, but Mycroft merely shook his head and held his large, chubby hand out towards him, "Doctor Watson," he nodded to him, his hand hanging in the air between them.

Watson dragged his eyes off the mountains of food covering the tables around them, a look of shock and horror barely disguised as he stepped forward to shake Mycroft's offered hand, "You look…" he hesitated, making Holmes frown at him, "…well, sir," he finished, attempting to be diplomatic.

"Really?" he raised his eyebrows, letting go of Watson's hand as he moved back to stand beside Amelia, "I rather thought I looked enormous," he reached across to pick up a large glass of port, lifting it up to his lips, taking a large sip.

He continued staring at him, his eyes flickering around at all the food, and Amelia could almost feel his doctor-senses prickling, "Well, now you mention it," he began, his tone growing firmer as a deep, worried frown crossed his face, watching Mycroft lower his half-empty glass back onto the table, "This level of consumption is _incredibly_ injurious to your health. Your heart…"

"No need to worry on that score, Watson," Holmes cut in, speaking quite quickly, watching his brother.

"No?" he blinked, confused.

"There's a large cavity where that organ should reside".

"Holmes," Amelia scolded lightly, though she appeared highly amused, despite herself.

Mycroft smirked slightly, glancing at Watson, who still appeared quite concerned, "It's a family trait".

"Oh, I wasn't being critical," Holmes commented, giving him an almost fond smile, his tone softening.

"Of course," he went on, his smirk growing, "You appeared to have avoided inheriting that trait, little brother," his eyes flickered over to Amelia, giving her a point look as Holmes glanced at her quickly, his smile vanishing. Amelia smiled and inclined her head towards Mycroft, "How are my dear niece and nephew?" he asked her, sounding quite casual, "Did they enjoy my present?"

"Indeed," Amelia nodded, her smile growing slightly strained, "However, I'm afraid that for future reference, Mycroft, perhaps it would be better to gift them some sort of toy, rather than a full banquet of cakes and pie".

"Yes, quite," Holmes agreed, narrowing his eyes slightly on his brother, who looked rather amused, "All that sugar, they were practically bouncing off the walls. William made himself quite ill consuming all of those raspberry tarts".

"Mr Holmes," Watson interrupted sharply, frowning deeply as he eyed Mycroft, concern written across his features, "If you continue like this, sir, I give you five years at the most".

Holmes raised his eyebrows, glancing passed Amelia to him, seeming surprised.

"Five?" Mycroft repeated, sounding almost disappointed. Amelia shook her head, the first hint of disproval crossing her face as she shot Holmes a look, "We thought three, did we not, Sherlock?" he looked over to his brother.

"I'm still inclined to four," Holmes replied, giving him a tight lipped smile. Amelia sighed and gave him another look, of course he would wish to take any chance he could to disagree with his brother, though why they both wished to continue this little games of theirs was still a mystery to her. She understood one's need to find something to break up the boredom of life, however, she would rather her children grow up to have their uncle, even if he was hardly the most sentimental over them.

He returned his smile, but his was far more condescending, "As ever, you see but do not observe," he said, making Holmes roll his eyes very slightly in annoyance, "Note the discolouration in the whites of my eyes," he pointed up to his eyes as he spoke, "The visible rings of fat around the corneas…" his smile widened, seeming to be taking great pleasure in his less then healthy appearance.

"Yes, you're right," he cut across him, poor Watson only looking more horrified, "I'm changing my bet to three years, four months and eleven days".

"A bet?" Watson exclaimed, his head snapping around to stare at Holmes, appalled.

"I understand your disapproval, Watson," Holmes said calmly, not even taking his gaze off Mycroft, who seemed to be enjoying the whole discussion of his impending death far too much. Amelia found the whole thing a little distasteful, if she was being honest, but she knew Sherlock and Mycroft well enough by now to know that there was little she could do to put a stop to it, their own competitive nature and desire to self destruct was far too strong, "But if he's feeling competitive it is perfectly within his power to die early," he gave Mycroft a intent look, eyeing him closely.

"That's a risk you'll have to take," Mycroft said slyly, giving him a smirk.

Watson blinked slowly in disbelief, looking between both men before settling on Mycroft, "You're gambling with your own life?" he almost gaped, his mouth hanging open very slightly. He glanced at Amelia, noticing the disproving twist of her lips, "Mrs Holmes, surely you have something to say about this?"

"They are bored fools," Amelia said with a heavy sigh, before shrugging, "However, they are also adults and I am not their mother, nor am I Mycroft's wife. Honestly, Watson," she shook her head, looking at him, "One would think that you had not known us all for all these years, especially since you seem to be under the assumption that I have any power over their amusements," she threw Holmes a pointed look at that, thinking of his habit of indulging in opioids and stimulants.

She had tried to stop him from using the substances; she hated the thought of Holmes injecting toxins and whatever else into his body. Thankfully, his usage of the drugs had almost completely stopped since she had married him, of course she was no fool and she knew well enough that he would never completely give it up, he had merely…agreed not to use it unless completely needed, though Amelia strongly disagreed with that. He insisted, of course, that he merely used substances to help improve his mental capacity, but Amelia knew that there was more to it than that, she had known others who had been addicted to opioids, and she knew through her study of the human psyche that many who did dabble with such substances were more often than not searching for an escape. She could sympathise with his own desire to escape from reality, it was not easy being able to see the things that they could, but she hated the affect it had on his body, the way it could change his personality. It broke her heart to see him when he was under the influence of those substances; she just hoped that she could shield the children from ever witnessing what she had.

"Why should we not gamble with our own lives, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Watson, who dragged his eyes off Amelia, seeming quite shocked by her response. He shrugged, smiling very slightly, "It's so much more exciting than gambling with others".

Watson continued staring at him, his eyes narrowed slightly and his brow furrowed, looking as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Holmes pulled his gaze off Amelia, clearing his throat very slightly at the slight glare she had been giving him; instead he focused on a large, plum pudding sitting on a small plate on one of the tables surrounding Mycroft.

"Three years flat if you eat that plum pudding," he nodded to the pudding, giving Mycroft a knowing look, his tone light and pleasant.

Mycroft's eyes lit up in delight, "Done!" he said eagerly, licking his lips as he shifted sideways in his chair, which was a feat in its own, and reached over to grab the plate the pudding was sitting on, bringing it up to his chin.

Amelia had to look away in disgust, feeling slightly ill watching Mycroft grab the pudding with his bare hand to bring it up to his mouth, clearly intending to eat the whole thing with just simply his fingers. Watson, on the other hand, appeared to be unable to look away in his horror, while Holmes just seemed to be only mildly interested. As a whole, it was a very odd experience, indeed.

….

Thankfully, it didn't take long for Mycroft to finish his pudding, appearing quite smug with himself once only crumbs remained on his plate. He soon called for three chairs to be brought in for his guests, the servants placing them before Mycroft's chair as they each took a seat, Amelia in the middle as Holmes and Watson sat on either side of her, while another servant setup four teacups, a small jug of milk, a plate of biscuits, and a bowl of sugar with a matching coffee pot, placing it on a small table beside Watson's chair. Amelia lightly blew on the surface of her coffee, a biscuit sitting on the edge of her saucer as, for a long moment, a silence settled over the room, her skirts draped neatly over her crossed legs.

"I expected to see you a few days ago about the Manor House case," Mycroft said, breaking the silence, eyeing Holmes closely as he took a sip of his black coffee. He had decided to forego coffee, much to all of their surprise, since they had all expected him to have taken it as a chance to consume more sugar, "I thought you might be a little out of your depth there," he smiled faintly.

Holmes placed his saucer and cup down on the table beside him, not meeting his brother's eyes, "No," he replied, "I solved it".

"It was Adams, of course".

"Yes, it was Adams," he agreed, finally looking up to him, while Amelia raised her eyebrows curiously, taking a small sip from her cup. She had not been involved in the case, she had thought it was better suited to Holmes and, besides, she had hoped it might keep him from shooting any walls while she was busy with several suffragette meetings.

"Murderous jealously," Mycroft explained, glancing over to Amelia and Watson, noting their confused, in Watson's case, and inquiring expressions, "He'd written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic, and then read another that seemed to surpass it".

"I know," Holmes frowned very slightly, before Amelia or Watson could respond, "I read it".

"Did you understand it?"

He paused, glancing over towards Amelia and Watson, "Yes, of _course_ I understood it," he said with a slightly pointed look towards them, though Amelia merely took another sip from her cup. He turned back towards Mycroft, "It was perfectly simple".

"No, did you understand the murderous jealousy?" Mycroft corrected, eyeing his brother closely as he frowned slightly again, looking mildly confused. He gave him a knowing little smirk, "It is no easy thing for a great mind to contemplate a still greater one".

Amelia gave Mycroft a careful look, wondering exactly what the purpose of all this was, a warning, perhaps? A warning of someone with intelligence capable of surpassing Holmes's rising from the shadows? Or was it merely Mycroft attempting to embarrass his little brother again, with Mycroft there was always a reason, sometimes more than one. But something about this whole thing made her feel a spark of concern, Mycroft wouldn't have simply have summoned them here for his own amusement, so there had to be something more, something important.

Holmes sighed faintly, his expression growing harder with barely concealed annoyance, "Did you summon me here just to humiliate me?" he asked, his tone flat and low.

Mycroft broke into a sly smile, eyeing him closely, "Yes," he told him, only to laugh as Holmes rose onto his feet, anger crossing his face as he began to turn away.

Amelia grabbed his arm, stopping him, "Sherlock, sit down," she said firmly, tightening her hold on his arm very slightly, making him look back down to her. He still looked very cross, his lips set into a firm, hard line, but as he meet her eyes, some of the tension in his body softened, "Sherlock…" she tried again, her voice barely above a whisper, "Please, sit down. You know that Mycroft was merely teasing, am I correct, Mycroft?" she looked back over to her brother-in-law, her voice growing sharper.

"Yes, of course," he laughed again, still seeming to be highly amused, "But it is by far the greater pleasure…"

Holmes turned back towards him, his eyes narrowed angrily, while Amelia threw Mycroft a dark look, "Then would you mind explaining exactly why you _did_ summon…" he began to say, anger and frustration filling his voice.

"Our way of life is under threat from an invisible enemy," Mycroft spoke over the top of him, silencing Holmes as he listened intently, Amelia eyeing Mycroft curiously. His expression was grim, any trace of his previous humour gone, "One that hovers at our elbow on a daily bases. These enemies are everywhere, undetected and unstoppable".

Watson leaned forward in his chair, while Amelia frowned deeply, "Socialists?" he asked, his eyes quite determined, just as he had been all those months ago over his theory of the twins. It did not bode well in Amelia's eyes.

He glanced over to him, "Not socialists, Doctor, no," he shook his head lightly.

"Anarchists?"

"No".

"The French?" Watson suggested quickly, leaning forward even more in his chair. Instantly, Amelia straightened and gave him a sharp, warning look, "The suffragists?"

" _Watson_ ," Amelia cut in, looking as though she was only just refining from hitting him right now, anger flashing in her eyes, "Have care what you say, or have you forgotten that I happen to be part French and a proud suffragette?" her glare grew positively icy as Watson blinked slightly, casting her a mildly alarmed look. She leaned closer to him and pointed a sharp finger into his chest, making him wince slightly, "I swear, if you so much as say one word about the Irish, Godfather of my children or not, you will be reminded that I share blood with James Moriarty".

"Now, Amelia," Holmes said calmly, placing a hand on her shoulder as he stood behind her chair and lightly pulling her back from Watson. He gave her an almost gentle smile, appearing to be more amused than anything by the sight of his angry wife practically threatening Watson, "You are not going to murder Watson over his own ignorance, you would have surely have done so by now, if that were the case,"

She huffed in annoyance and crossed her arms across her chest in a very un-lady like manner, throwing Watson another warning glare, "Regardless," she said coldly, "One bad word against the Irish and I shall not be responsible for what ill fate befalls him, Holmes".

Mycroft watched the scene with mild amusement, "Doctor Watson," he eyed the man, who shifted slightly in his chair; his eyes flickering nervously back over to Amelia. He might have fought in war and been a solider half of his life, but even he knew to be wary of a Moriarty, especially one who was incredibly angry with you, "Is there any large body of people you're not concerned about?" he questioned him.

"Doctor Watson is endlessly vigilant," Holmes commented, giving Watson a warning look of his own, his hand still resting on Amelia's shoulder. Watson truly was quite ignorant of many things, which was a great shame as it was often the main cause for why he and Amelia fought, which did tend to be quite tiresome and annoying to him while attempting to solve a case while his companions argued over matters like politics and women's rights. He pulled his gaze off Watson and instead looked back across to his brother, "Elaborate".

"No," Mycroft said firmly, "Investigate. This is a conjecture of mine and I need you to confirm it. I'm sending you a case".

Watson looked down briefly, frowning thoughtfully, "The Scots?" he looked back up to Mycroft, though his eyes did flicker over to Amelia, who gave him a puzzled look, thankfully not seeming to wish to strangle him, however.

" _Scots_?" Holmes repeated, his head snapping around to stare at Watson, looking incredulous. Honestly, Watson truly had learnt nothing.

Amelia sighed heavily, reaching up to slip her glasses off in order to rub her blurred eyes, "Please stop trying to help, Watson," she muttered, reminding herself that he truly didn't mean anything behind his words, that didn't excuse his ignorance, of course.

Mycroft looked amused as Watson simply looked confused, "Are you aware of recent theories concerning what is known as 'paranoia?'" he asked him.

"Ooh," Watson narrowed his eyes, "Sounds Serbian".

Amelia made an annoyed noise in his throat and slipped her glasses back on, throwing him an almost disgusted look. She loved Watson, he was the closest thing to a brother she had ever had and exactly the type of man she had always hoped James might have been, if he had not been so…psychotic. But as much as Watson could be a wonderful, clever, and even gentle friend, he could also be so very old fashioned in his views, so set in his mindset that women had the domestic roles of wife and mother, but nothing more, let alone his own ideas and suspiciousness of other countries. It was enough to make her want to hit him at times, the frustration of just wishing he would open his mind more to all the possibilities out there.

Mycroft shook his head and turned his attention onto Holmes and Amelia, "A woman will call upon you," he informed them, while they quickly focused on him, "Lady Carmichael. I want you to take her case".

"But these enemies," Watson frowned, shaking his head as he looked at Mycroft, "How are we to defeat them if you won't tell us about them?"

"We don't defeat them," he said quietly, his expression growing grave, "We must certainly _lose_ to them," his eyes flickered over to Amelia and quickly away again, making her eye him closely, wondering what exactly was going on inside his head.

Watson looked very confused, his mouth twitching in disbelief, "Why?"

"Because they are right, and we are wrong".

Amelia blinked slowly, glancing up to Holmes, who was watching his brother closely, seeming to be just as puzzled as she felt over Mycroft's cryptic response. The way that he spoke about this threat, he made it sound as though it was a terrible thing that must be stopped, he had said it would change everything, but yet he was insisting that they had to concede defeat to this mysterious threat and allow it to win. But what could that threat be? She was at a complete loss as to what he might be referring to and it was beyond frustrating.

"Lady Carmichael's case," Holmes said after a brief spell of silence, "What is it?"

"Oh, rest assured, it has features of interest," Mycroft told him, something close to teasing glimmering in his eyes.

He frowned, annoyance crossing his face, "I never _really_ say that".

"You really do," Watson said with a glance up to him, earning a quick look from Holmes.

"It's true, my darling," Amelia agreed, tilting her head up to him slightly, smiling softly.

Holmes sighed slightly, seeming to realise that he had lost this round, instead turning his attention back onto his brother, "And you've solved it already, I assume?" he asked him.

"Only in my head," Mycroft said, "I need you for the, er…" he paused, grimacing as his eyes flickered around the three of them, "…. _legwork_ ," he made the word sound as though he found it to be positively disgusting, making Amelia shake her head at his laziness, not understanding it at all.

"Why not just tell us your solution?" Watson questioned, confused.

"Where would the sport be in that?" he frowned at him, as though Watson was being a fool. He shook his head, turning his gaze onto Holmes and Amelia, "Will you do it? I can promise you a superior distraction, Sherlock," he gave him a little smile and pointed a large finger at him.

Holmes considered it very briefly, his eyes meeting Amelia's for a moment as she nodded, quite up for whatever challenge Mycroft had for them, "On one condition," he looked back across to Mycroft, "Have another pudding".

"There's one on the way".

"Two years, eleven months, and four days," he remarked lightly, buttoning his dress coat as he gave Mycroft a tight smile, turning to head towards the door.

Mycroft grinned, his eyes lightly up, "It's getting exciting now!" he almost cheered.

Amelia forced a smile as she carefully rose onto her feet, absently brushing her skirts down, "I would say that I hope you enjoy yourself, Mycroft," she said with a sigh, "But I think that's a given".

He laughed, making his double chin wobble dangerously as Amelia crossed the room to join her husband by the door, Watson standing and moving to follow them, but not before giving Mycroft one last worrying look. Mycroft lifted his hand, wiggling his fingers at them as they left, "Tick tock," he said cheerfully, "Tick tock, tick tock…"

…

Later that afternoon, just as Mycroft had warned them, a carriage arrived outside of Baker Street, bringing with it Lady Carmichael, a well-dressed, handsome woman with curly blonde hair neatly arranged beneath her brown, feathered hat. As with many of their clients, she appeared to be rather uncomfortable as Amelia politely offered her their customary chair in front of the fireplace, while Holmes and Watson took their usual seats in their armchairs, Amelia delicately perching herself on the armrest of her husband's chair, observing the lady before them with great interest. The woman was clearly from old money, not just a wealthy bride married into aristocracy, and she could deduce that she had arrived in London from the countryside only that morning, having departed from the train station to meet them at Baker Street immediately upon her arrival, which was most telling, indeed. Most woman of Lady Carmichael or even Amelia's standing would take some time to refresh themselves from the journey before visiting others, but Lady Carmichael had forgone doing so. That suggested that whatever it was that she wished to discuss with them, it was of the uttermost importance to her.

"Mr Holmes," Lady Carmichael began after a moment, and just like so many other clients, seeming to be under the impression that Holmes was the sole detective within the room, "I have come here for advice".

"That is easily got," Holmes replied lightly, while Watson took notes.

She hesitated very slightly, barely concealed anxiety filling her face, "And help," she added.

"Not always so easy".

"We shall do our very best, Lady Carmichael," Amelia attempted to reassure the woman, seeing her expression drop slightly. She pretended not to notice the startled look that Lady Carmichael gave her, used to it after all these years, so instead she simply smile politely, "Perhaps it would be best if you were to explain to us what it is that you require assistance with?"

She nodded slowly, seeming to be attempting to compose herself before beginning her story, "Something has happened," she told them, "Something…" she paused, her eyes growing distant, "…unusual and…terrifying," she looked back up to Holmes, looking rather shaken, even though she attempted to hide it.

"Then you are in luck," Holmes commented calmly.

She scoffed very slightly, staring at him in disbelief, "'Luck?'"

He gave her a faint smile, "Those are my specialisms," he informed her, glancing up to Amelia, who raised her eyebrows at him, "As I am sure my wife would agree?"

"You forgot to mention that they are also a personal hobby," Amelia reminded him, looking almost amused. Yes, the unusual and terrifying certainly were a hobby of theirs, it was what made their cases all the more interesting and set them apart from the police, though she supposed the fact that they tended to have a better track recorded of actually finding the true killer and not just pinning it upon someone with a possible connection to the crime also set them apart.

Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement of her statement, looking rather pleased as he looked back across to Watson, "This is really very promising," he said happily, his eyes bright.

Watson gave him a stern look from over the top of his notepad, "Holmes…" he said in a warning tone.

He sighed and turned back towards Lady Carmichael, growing serious once more. Yes, perhaps he was not behaving in the most gentlemanly manner, "Please do tell us what has so distressed you," he said to the woman, forcing a polite, kinder tone into his voice, noting out of the corner of his eye Amelia's approving nod.

"And please…" Amelia cut in quickly before Lady Carmichael could begin speaking, though her voice was soft, "Do please include every detail that you possibly can recall, even the smallest, insignificant detail may prove to be the most important to the case".

Lady Carmichael glanced down at her lap for a brief moment, gathering her thoughts, "I…I thought long and hard as to what to do," she said after a lapse of silence, broken only by the clunking of horse hooves on the street outside. She lifted her head to look at Holmes and Amelia, looking quite nervous, "But then, er, it occurred to me that my husband was an acquaintance of your brother, Mr Holmes, and that, perhaps through him…" she trailed off, looking over towards the window, seeming to be struggling to know how to carry on. Holmes tilted his head curiously, eyeing her closely, while Amelia kept her expression polite but encouraging, allowing her to take her time, "The fact is…" she continued, speaking in a rush as she looked back to them, not seeming to be able to get the words out quick enough, "I'm not sure this comes within your purview, Mr Holmes".

"No?" Holmes asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

"Lord help me," she breathed, her face paling, even thinking about it, "I think it might be a matter for a priest".

Holmes glanced at Amelia and Watson, who both looked at him, all three of them starting to grow mildly unsettled, but it would not be the first time, nor the last that a client came to them claiming that perhaps a priest would help them better then a detective could. In most of those cases, the client was proven to be quite wrong and a logical explanation found that had nothing to do with religion, but Lady Carmichael did appear to be quite shaken by whatever matter had brought her to their door and Amelia could deduce that this was a woman not usually inclined towards displays of emotion in front of strangers. Her breeding and upbringing would not have allowed for such a thing, and yet, here she sat before them, very clearly distressed and afraid.

"Lady Carmichael," Amelia turned back towards the woman, giving her a gentle smile, "I assure you, we have dealt with many mysterious and often seemingly impossible cases," she told her reassuringly, hoping she looked warm and encouraging, trying to put her nerves to rest, "Please, if you would be so kind as to tell us your story, we shall do everything within our power to offer our assistance," she gave her another little smile as the woman nodded, seeming almost relieved, "When you are ready".

Lady Carmichael took a deep, steadying breath, looking back down to her lap, "It first began a few days ago," she informed them, returning her gaze onto the detectives, while Watson quickly began scribbling away in his notepad, "We were eating breakfast when the mail arrived. At first I thought nothing of it, my husband, Sir Eustace was in a fine mood that morning as he took the letters, but then…" she hesitated, a frown crossing her face, "As he began to open one of the letters, his expression…I have never seen him look quite so…horrified," she looked back up to them, swallowing hard, "I attempted to ask him what had upset him so, but he barely seemed to even hear me, it was as though he had been entranced by what was inside the letter. I…I sent the children outside the to play, I did not wish to upset them, and I moved to take the letter from my husband to see for myself, but…" her expression grew even more troubled, "All it contained were five orange pips…"

Holmes and Amelia exchanged a brief look, listening intently to her every word, while Watson glanced up with a puzzled expression.

"At first I thought it to be a joke," she continued, "A prank, if you will, but when I asked Eustace what it was supposed to mean…he simply looked at me, white as a sheet, and said, 'Death,'" she looked down at again, shaking her head slightly, as though trying to clear her thoughts, "I shall never forget the look on his face, for as long as I live. It chilled me to my bones, Mr Holmes," she lapsed into silence, looking straight ahead into the fireplace, while Holmes and Amelia watched her closely, waiting for her to go on, sensing more. After a moment, she took a deep breath and dragged her eyes off the empty grating, looking back to them, "He attempted to laugh it off, perhaps seeing how distressed I was, insisting that it was a mistake and nothing more, but I know differently, Mr Holmes. Since that morning, Eustace has refused to speak of the letter".

"Did you keep the envelope?" Holmes asked her, watching her keenly.

"My husband destroyed it," she shook her head, making Watson frown and Amelia raise her eyebrows, "But it was blank," she added quickly, noticing their expressions, "No name or address of any kind".

"Curious," Amelia said softly, glancing sideways at Holmes, "The letter must have been slipped amongst the rest of the mail, then. It would hardly be difficult to bribe a servant".

"Hmm…" Holmes hummed lightly in agreement, looking thoughtful for a moment before looking back across to Lady Carmichael, "Tell me," he observed her intently, "Has Sir Eustace spent time in America?"

Lady Carmichael frowned, confused, "No," she replied slowly.

"Not even before your marriage?"

"Well, not to my knowledge".

"Hmm," he hummed again, catching Amelia's eye. It was still very possible that Sir Eustace had taken a trip to America at some point during his youth and wouldn't wish to tell his wife of it, which rather suggested that whatever he might have done in America, was not something his wife would approve of. That would also be another motive for someone wishing to send him a death threat, perhaps something from his youth had returned to haunt him, but it was all speculation at this point, they still needed more detail of the matter. He turned his attention back onto Lady Carmichael, "Pray continue with your fascinating narrative," he brought his hands together before his mouth, pressing his fingertips together.

Lady Carmichael looked rather puzzled still, apparently still thrown by Holmes's question about America, "Well," she said slowly, frowning slightly, "That incident took place last Monday morning. It was two days later, on the Wednesday, that my husband first saw her".

Watson lifted his head from his notes, frowning at her, "Who?"

"I awoke in the early hours of the morning," she told them, her expression grave, "I reached out for Eustace, but he was no longer beside me. Naturally, I grew concerned, given what had been sent in the mail, so I tried searching for him. That's when I saw him…" something in her voice changed, growing softer, "He was standing before a window in the darkness, pressed against it as he…whimpered, looking down over grounds to where our hedge maze is outside. When I reached out to touch him, he…" she hesitated, looking almost torn as she looked briefly down at her lap, "Please, you must understand, my husband is not prone to bursts of emotions, but this night…I have never seen him so distressed. And the things he said, claiming that his sins had found him, that there was something outside that had come for him…" she paused, looking back up to Holmes and Amelia, "Or rather someone".

Amelia found herself leaning closer towards the woman, staring at her intently, "And that would be…the Bride?" she questioned, suspecting that it surely must be. That seemed to be the hot topic amongst everyone in London lately, the papers positively buzzed about it every morning, but how exactly it applied to Sir Eustace and his mysterious five orange pips confused her still.

"Yes," she nodded, swallowing, "I tried to see her, the Bride, but I could see nothing through the dark and mist, Mr Holmes".

Watson's eyes widened, pausing in his note taking to look at Lady Carmichael before quickly looking back across to Holmes and Amelia, who meet his eyes. The Bride again, just as Amelia had suspected, but while Watson may still feel that there was something of a paranormal nature surrounding the Bride, Amelia refused to believe in ghosts or the possibility that someone could rise from the dead. Oh, she had grown up hearing the ghost stories and frightening tales from her own father as a little girl, not to mention the Irish folklore about fairies and changelings, she and James had positively loved the ghostly stories of the lady who haunted the grounds of their very own estate, or even the stories told to her by her mother about her own French childhood home having been haunted, but she was not a little girl any longer. She did not believe in ghosts or vengeful sprits, and nor did she believe that this so called Bride was anything more then another mystery that they had yet to solve.

Holmes turned back towards Lady Carmichael, "And you saw _nothing_?" he asked her, wishing to make quite certain, needing to have a full picture of exactly what occurred.

"Nothing," Lady Carmichael confirmed firmly.

"Did your husband describe…"

"Nothing," she cut across him, her expression growing grim again, "Until this morning".

Amelia sat up straighter, sensing that they were finally reaching something very significant, perhaps even the thing that had caused Lady Carmichael to see them without so much as taking the time to freshen herself from her train journey, "What happened this morning?" she questioned, unable to hide her own curiosity now.

Lady Carmichael instantly paled and shifted very slightly in her seat, her eyes flickering between Amelia and Holmes, before glancing over to Watson. She took a deep breath, "I awoke again to find myself quite alone," she said quietly, her voice sounding less steady then it had previously, "I rose from my bed, searching for my husband, but he was not in the room at all. That was when I caught sight of him outside the window, walking down the path towards the maze. I…I followed him, I even thought that perhaps he was sleepwalking, as he has been known to do, but never before had he found his way into the grounds in that state," she shook her head, her expression troubled, even a hint of fear in her eyes, "I called for him through the maze, though he never answered, and then…then I heard it…" she closed her eyes, something close to a shiver running through her, "Singing, a woman singing a lullaby…"

Amelia quickly looked at Holmes, recalling how the constable at the murder of Emelia Ricoletti's husband had made a point of mentioning that the Bride had been singing a lullaby. As far as Amelia knew, and she had made a point of carefully reading each and every mention of the Bride, regardless of her own feelings in regards to the notion of Emelia Ricoletti having returned from the dead, no mention of this lullaby being sung had made it into the press yet, so how had this _new_ Bride known of it? Some would say it was yet more evidence to suggest that it was the same Bride, but she still felt it absurd.

"It was so haunting," she continued, opening her eyes at last, "It was as though it was coming from all around me, but I…I was able to follow it, and that's how I found Eustace. He was frozen in horror in one of the maze's pathways and standing before him, covered by a white veil, was…was a bride softly singing. I demanded to know who she was, but she did not answer, so I tried to make Eustace awaken from his horror-stricken state. Once he did, his first words were a name, 'Emelia Ricoletti'. And that was when she moved, like a breath of air over water, gliding towards us through the mist, until finally she spoke to us…"

"What did she say?" Amelia almost whispered, finding herself so entranced in the story, as though she was a little girl all over again, listening to her father's ghost stories. But it sounded like such a good story, it was hard to remind herself that it had all happened and that she needed to remain professional.

"'This night, Eustace Carmichael, you will die,'" Lady Carmichael told them, swallowing hard as she spoke the words in a weak voice, "The Bride, she began to lift her veil, but Eustace had been through too much and he…he fainted into my arms," she took a moment, the silence within the room so heavy it almost felt like it was coating their very skin, but she only took a moment to compose herself before going on, "When I looked up again, the Bride had vanished".

For a long moment no one spoke, Amelia's mind was buzzing and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest as a cold shiver went up her spin, barely managing to disguise the unpleasant sensation. Holmes seemed to be completely unaffected by the tale, but Amelia knew him better than anyone else, she could see the gears turning in his mind, trying to piece together a logical explanation, but Watson looked as though he could barely contain himself, his eyes wider than ever with a frantic glimmer and his body held tensely, looking as though he wished to leap out of his chair.

"Holmes?" Watson asked quietly, looking over to the detectives, "Mrs Holmes?"

"Hush, Watson," Holmes muttered, his fingers still pressed together just beneath his lips, deep in thought.

"We must think, Watson," Amelia told him with a frown, her eyes fixed on the wall over the sofa on the other side of the room, but she wasn't truly seeing it, her eyes glazed over with thought, struggling to find some sort of logical explanation for how any of this was possible, for there must surely be a logical explanation and not a paranormal one.

Watson, however, was not deterred, "But Emelia Ricoletti, the Bride!" he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, trying not to draw the client's attention.

It was unsuccessful, Lady Carmichael immediately looked at him in surprise, "You know the name," she realised, staring at him curiously.

"You must forgive Watson," Holmes cut in, drawing her attention back over to him. He lowered his hands from his lips, giving her a brief, tight lipped smile, "He has an enthusiasm for stating the obvious which borders on mania," he cast Watson a pointed look, not at all impressed by Watson's comment about Emelia Ricoletti having returned once more, Watson returning his look with a dark glare of his own. He turned back towards Lady Carmichael, "May I ask: how _is_ your husband this morning?"

"He refuses to speak about the matter," Lady Carmichael replied, sighing slightly, "Obviously I have urged him to leave the house…"

"No, no!" he said hurriedly, holding a hand up, making everyone blink at him in surprise, "He must stay exactly where he is".

Amelia frowned slightly, "Holmes, I am not sure this is wise," she said softly, looking concerned. She could see what his mind had jumped to, what idea had popped into his head, but she couldn't help finding it to be fraught with possible complications and, not to mention, greatly dangerous when they still knew so little about this Bride.

Lady Carmichael looked caught between confusion and alarm, eyeing Holmes curiously, "Well, you don't think he's in danger?" she asked him.

"Oh no," Holmes shook his head dismissively, only sparing his wife a brief glance, "Somebody definitely wants to kill him, but that's good for us…" he smiled faintly, looking back up to the puzzled Lady Carmichael, while both Amelia and Watson exchanged a troubled look, "You can't set a trap without bait".

Amelia closed her eyes in exasperation, reaching up to rub her forehead as Lady Carmichael gave a appalled gasp, "I don't suppose wording it slightly more diplomatically even crossed your mind, Sherlock?" she muttered out of the corner of her mouth, but he merely shrugged lightly in response, clearly feeling little concern.

Lady Carmichael fixed Holmes with a hard expression, "My husband is not _bait_ , Mr Holmes," she said firmly.

"No," he agreed, and for a moment Amelia almost felt relieved…until he continued, "But he _could_ be if we play our cards right," he told her lightly, making Watson raise his eyebrows and Amelia sigh at his horrible way of putting it. Surely he could have worded it better, at least not make it so very obvious that he planned to use Sir Eustace for bait before the man's already frightened wife, "Now, listen," he focused intently on Lady Carmichael, who looked quite shocked, "You must go home immediately. Doctor Watson, Mrs Holmes, and I will follow on the next train. There's not a moment to lose. Sir Eustace is to die tonight".

"Holmes!" Watson hissed, giving him an exasperated look as Lady Carmichael looked around at the three of them in turn, her eyes wide with alarm.

He blinked slightly and cleared his throat as he caught Amelia's stern glare, "And we should…probably avoid that," he corrected hastily, shaking his head.

"I think you mean _definitely_ avoid Sir Eustace's death," Amelia said sharply, watching him with narrowed eyes.

" _Definitely_ avoid that," he nodded, though his attempt to cover up his rather lack of concern in regards to Sir Eustace's safety wasn't overly convincing, but it seemed to work for Lady Carmichael, who while still visibly confused, slowly began to nod in agreement with the plan.

Amelia struggled to hold back a very un-lady like eye roll and instead, fixed a comforting smile onto her face, turning back to Lady Carmichael, "Do not worry," she said reassuringly, "We know what we're doing".

 _ **Finally finished! I am so sorry for the wait; life has been very busy as of late with study and life in general, in fact I wrote half of this chapter as an attempt to distract myself while my dog underwent surgery. Oh, and in other exciting news, tickets to the Cursed Child went on sale yesterday in the city nearest to me and I'm going to see it in March with my parents. I'm so excited, even if I don't exactly agree with it as being canon to the Harry Potter universe.**_

 _ **Amelia's outfit for this chapter will be up on my Tumblr and Pinterest. I hope you liked it and again, I apologise for the long wait. Let me know what you thought, please review :)**_

 _ **Guest reviews:**_

 _ **Guest (1):**_ _ **I would definitely consider writing a one-shot of their Victorian wedding, even other one-shots that feature more about their Victorian lives, since I truly do so love writing anything relating to that time period. Don't worry; I plan to finish it, hopefully soon. I am**_ _ **very**_ _ **excited to start writing the fourth season. Thanks for the suggestion :)**_

 _ **CROWPRINCESS:**_ _ **Well, it might have taken a while and again, I apologise, but we finally saw Mycroft. I remember getting quite a giggle out of that scene when I first saw it, it was the moment I knew it all had to be some sort of weird, possibly drug induced dream from Sherlock's head. Only he would come up with something like that about his own brother :)**_

 _ **LadyRedStar:**_ _ **Oh, I know, it's a little odd that he didn't call Molly out on her disguise, given his attitude towards women. I can't help but wonder if it might be because he really isn't as close minded as he seems, I mean with Mary it's different. Mary is his wife and it's kind of like how he always expected her to be a certain way, back before he found out the truth about her, but instead she wasn't and it completely threw him, but he eventually came to accept it and came to realise that he never could have been with anyone 'ordinary'. Watson, I think, has a certain admiration for those who don't completely follow the normal, otherwise why else would he have come to be friends with Sherlock Holmes?**_

 _ **Oh, yes, a BIG surprise is coming Watson's way, and of course Amelia would know about Molly's disguise. She would whole heartedly agree with it and be more than happy to help her :)**_

 _ **Guest (2):**_ _ **I do apologise for the long wait, but here's that update! :)**_


	5. Chapter 5 From Out of the Mist

_**From Out of the Mist**_

The train snaked its way through the English country side, while Amelia sat in one of the First Class compartments beside Holmes, silently reading a small novel that she had brought with her, though the journey would only take an hour and half by train. She found it difficult to focus on the fine print within the pages of her book; however, she had already found herself rereading the same paragraph three times now as her own mind wondered with thoughts of their latest case, attempting to make sense of it all. It was positively frustrating that she couldn't make sense of any of it, that months had gone by since the Bride had first appeared and yet, still so many questions continued to rise. It felt as though with each new appearance of the Bride and each logical explanation found to determine the latest so called Bride's killing's, that more questions arose. And now, another Bride had risen from the shadows to torment a seemingly innocent man, would this be the case to finally put an end to all this nonsense about Emelia Ricoletti's return? Amelia dearly hoped so; she was getting terribly bored of discussing the matter.

She sighed again to herself, realising that she had once again allowed her thoughts to run away with her, losing her spot in her novel. She decided that perhaps she was simply too preoccupied to be attempting to read and so she closed the leather bound book, placing it in her lap as the train continued to rattle on through the countryside, Watson and Holmes completely silent since they had departed from the station twenty minutes ago, Holmes with his eyes closed and Watson staring outside the window as trees and fields passed by quickly. The compartment wasn't very good for reading; anyway, it was rather gloomy in the early afternoon light with rich, wooden panelling on the walls and ceiling, along with the dark green fabric covered seats that lined the side walls of the compartment, facing each other.

She looked between her companions, Holmes still with his eyes firmly closed and a peaceful expression on his face, beneath his deerstalker hat that had become something of a trademark for him, much to his annoyance. Watson, on the other hand, was being oddly quiet for him, usually he would be reading one of his newspapers or reviewing his notepad that he always carried with him to jot down their cases, sometimes she would even purposely bring up something to do with the suffragette movement or politics, just to have an excuse to have the entertainment of debating with him, if the journey was long enough to warrant such a thing. Holmes hated it, but Amelia found it far more interesting to watching the trees pass by. But today she restrained herself from the tempting urge, the case was very high risk and it would not do to distract Holmes from his thinking.

The train broke free from a thick patch of trees and for a moment the compartment was filled with light, making the pearl buttons down the front of Amelia's bodice glint slightly against the cream fabric of the rest of her dress, the fabric draping down the front of her top layer of skirting, revealing a hint of the first layer of skirting patterned with little roses. The bottom of the skirts had small ruffles along the edge of it, one cream and another lilac, matching her large, feathered lilac hat perched on her head, her hair arranged beneath it. Delicate cameo earrings were pinned to her ears and her small, rounded glasses perched on her bridge of her nose. She felt fresher in her country wear, though the layers of skirts or tight lacing of her corset really was no different from what she usually wore in London. Perhaps it was the lighter colour?

Another two minutes passed in silence, Amelia finding herself following the patterns stitched into the fabric of the seat opposite her, when Watson suddenly turned his head away from the window, a frown written across his features.

"You don't suppose…" he began, glancing between Amelia and Holmes.

Holmes didn't even open his eyes, "I don't," he cut across him, "And neither should you".

He eyed him closely, looking slightly annoyed, "You don't know what I was going to say".

"You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter, and I was about to laugh in your face and Amelia will, undoubtedly, scoff loudly".

Amelia considered it briefly, before nodding, "Yes, he's right," she agreed lightly, giving Watson a faint smile, noting how the man's eyes had widened in disbelief, "Oh, honestly, Watson," she sighed, her smile fading, replaced with a look of disappointment, "Not this again. You are a man of usually good sense and intelligence, and yet you continue to force me to question that by this insistence of the possibility of paranormal events occurring".

"But the Bride!" Watson exclaimed, frowning deeply again, only making Amelia shake her head, "Emelia Ricoletti, _again_. A dead woman, walking the Earth!"

Holmes heaved a heavy sigh and opened his eyes at last, fixing them on Watson, "You amaze me, Watson," he remarked, looking almost as disappointed as Amelia.

"I do?"

"Since when have you had any kind of imagination?" he questioned, his voice soft but it was still easily heard over the noise of the train rattling along.

Watson's mouth grew into a hard line, glaring at him for a moment before he took a deep breath and glanced back outside the window, "Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict was some kind of gentlemen hero," he commented with a hint of mocking in his tone, looking back across to Holmes.

"Yes," Holmes nodded, smiling in amusement, "Now you come to mention it, that was quite impressive," his smile vanished and he lowered his gaze onto the outside door of their compartment.

"You forgot to mention married," Amelia added quietly, before dramatically gasping, "Oh, but of course that would mean that _I_ was even mentioned within your writings, would it not, Watson?" she fixed him with a cool look, not about to allow him to forget her displeasure about her lack of inclusion in his stories when she felt quite owed in recognition, not so much for herself, but for the sake of her gender.

Watson sighed, "And we have discussed the matter many times, Mrs Holmes," he said hastily, clearing his throat under her cool, dark eyes.

She made a noise of annoyance in her throat, her eyes narrowing, "Clearly the message has not been received, then," she replied coldly.

"Surely you could write some mention of Amelia, Watson," Holmes lifted his gaze to Watson, giving him a firm look. Not only did he find it quite absurd that Watson seemed to continue to insist upon ignoring Amelia's existence within his writing, he was growing quite tired of hearing his wife's complaints on the matter, "Amelia is quite right, after all, she is deserving of her credit due".

"It's not me, it's the editor…" Watson muttered, though Amelia still threw him a dark look, not at all believing that it was just simply the publisher's doing. Watson had made such a name for himself and his stories, he could easily pull some weight around, he simply had to be firm enough in his convictions to do so. Sadly, however, Watson didn't seem to be when it came to woman's rights.

Amelia scoffed, looking away from him with a dark expression on her face, "That is as believable to me as the notion of a ghostly Bride committing murders," she muttered with a huff.

"Yes, indeed," Holmes nodded, inwardly pleased to have returned to the subject, though it brought with it a grim mood, "You may, however, rest assured, Watson, that there are no ghosts in this world," he told the man firmly, making him nod stiffly, just as the train whistle blew. Holmes dropped his gaze back down, his expression growing grave, almost sad, "…save those we make for ourselves," he finished softly, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the headrest.

Amelia blinked and looked over to him curiously, wondering exactly what he meant by that, and she could tell that Watson was just as confused as he looked back over to Holmes, exchanging a quick look with Amelia, before turning back to the still closed eyed detective.

"Sorry, what did you say?" he asked him, frowning deeply in confusion, but Holmes remained silent, not even bothering to crack his eyes open, "Ghosts we make ourselves?" he repeated, shaking his head, "What do you mean?"

Amelia watched Holmes closely, waiting for him to respond, to move or say something, but he remained completely still and silent. She frowned, catching Watson's eye again, before she lowered her gaze onto her folded, white gloved hands in her lap, her mind whirling. It was not the first time that Holmes had said something odd like that, sometime's he would say things that made no sense, or at times she even caught him staring blankly at the children, as though he couldn't even see them, before he would blink and recognition would fill his face, but it was still strange. Something was going on with him and she was determined to figure it out.

….

It was mid afternoon by the time the train arrived at their stop and they quickly departed, finding a carriage to take them to the Carmichael's very large and grand estate on the other side of the village, surrounded by large fields over green grass, though Amelia was slightly disappointed to find that she wasn't able to see the hedge maze from the front, gravel driveway of the house. They were escorted into the large, stone foyer and lead through the house by the family's butler into a very large, grand reception room that had crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, the walls covered in red patterned wallpaper with oil paintings of landscape scenes hung around the room and a massive red rug covering the floor, matching ornate, lavish furniture dotted around the room.

Sir Eustace was waiting for them before the marble fireplace, dressed in a light brown, tweed suit and with combed, brown hair. He politely offered Amelia a seat in one of the armchairs, as was gentlemanly to do, and Amelia forced a smile as she took a seat on the edge of the chair, noting out of the corner of her eye Holmes pacing around the room, seeming to be almost agitated as Watson began his questioning, asking Sir Eustace about his rather unusual, pre-dawn walk through the maze that morning as he stood in the middle of the room with his notepad in hand.

"Somnabulism," Sir Eustace replied in answer to Watson's question, making Amelia raise her eyebrow at the man. Lady Carmichael had said that she had first thought her husband had been sleep walking, so it was easy to deduce that he likely did it often, but Amelia didn't believe his excuse.

Watson looked up from his notes, blinking, "I beg your pardon?"

"It's the medical terminology for sleepwalking, Watson," Amelia informed him lightly, watching Sir Eustace closely. The man, just as she expected, very nearly did a double take, but she merely smiled inwardly, keeping her expression clear of emotion. She could tell that Sir Eustace was the type of man to view women as hysterical, delicate creatures that served more the purpose of a pretty ornament and child bearer then anything of true significances. She always took great pleasure in witnessing the shock in men's faces when she proved her intelligence, though it never really changed how they acted or viewed her, not in any good way, in any case. She glanced over to Watson, who was looking at her surprise, "It's also known as noctambulism".

"Yes, quite…" Sir Eustace agreed with a slight frown at her, Amelia noticed Holmes pause behind her chair, not even bothering to conceal his slight smirk before he turned away to continue his pacing of the room, "Forgive me, madam, but you are…?" he began, eyeing her.

"This is my wife and business partner, Sir Eustace," Holmes spoke up, pausing to turn around to face them once more, a hint pride in his voice, "Amelia Holmes".

He very nearly gaped, before giving a loud laugh, "Business partner?" he repeated, chuckling as though it was the most amusing thing he had heard for weeks, but Amelia and Holmes merely stared at him coolly, Watson shifting slightly awkwardly.

"Yes, Sir Eustace," Amelia said in a firm voice, lifting her chin higher, "Business partner".

Sir Eustace slowly stopped laughing, staring at them in disbelief, before he seemed to collect his manners and cast them both another, suspicious look, waiting for them to tell him it was just a joke. Of course, neither of them did and Watson still looked as though he wished he could just leave the room and never return, so Sir Eustace was forced to sniff in disapproval and turn back to Watson, apparently deciding that he couldn't say anything further without being insulting or offensive, or Amelia suspected.

"Sleepwalking is a common enough condition," he told Watson haughtily, "The whole thing was a…bad dream".

Amelia exchanged a look with Holmes, struggling to hold back a scoff. Yes, because those bloodshot eyes and slight tremble in his hands that he had clasped behind his back, trying to hid it, was all due to a 'bad dream'.

Watson raised his eyebrows, "Including the contents of the envelope you received?" he asked him.

Sir Eustace tried to laugh it off, but the slight panic in his eyes gave him away, "Well, that's a grotesque joke".

"Well, that's not the impression you gave your wife, sir".

"She's a hysteric, prone to fancies," he said dismissively, and Amelia narrowed her eyes on the man as her annoyance spiked, but she held her tongue and tightened her grip of her clasped hands in her lap.

"No," Holmes said simply, still pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved around to stand near Amelia's chair, though he wasn't looking at Sir Eustace. He could practically feel Amelia's temper rising, of course he knew she would not allow it to interfere with their professional work with a client, though it didn't stop them from very discreetly making little remarks. Men like Sir Eustace were so dull, they frustrated him beyond belief and being in their mere presence was a sure way to make him instantly annoyed with them, their black and white view of the world, and their refusal to even admit when another was more intelligent than them, such as a woman, was exactly the reason for why he detested client's like this, but the mystery was the reason he had taken it, not to prevent Sir Eustace's death, no matter what Watson might wish to believe.

There was a brief pause within the room as everyone looked at him, "I'm sorry?" Sir Eustace frowned at him, looking almost shocked that someone had dared to correct him within his own home, "What did you say?"

Holmes lightly rested his hand on top of Amelia's chair, his fingertips just shy of brushing against the fabric covering her shoulders, looking calmly back across the room to him, "I said no, she's not a hysteric," he said firmly, speaking rather quickly, "She's a highly intelligent woman of rare perception".

He stared at him, annoyance crossing his features, "My wife sees terror in an orange pip".

"Your wife can see worlds where no-one else can see anything of value whatsoever".

"Can she really?" he asked in a sarcastic drawl, instantly making Amelia narrow her eyes dangerously on the man, "And how do you 'deduce' that, Mr Holmes?"

"She married you," Holmes replied at once, making Amelia smile faintly, struggling to hold back a laugh as Sir Eustace's eyes widened, but even Watson looked amused by the remark. He shrugged carelessly, "I assume she was capable of finding a reason," Sir Eustace instantly began to surge towards Holmes, looking furious as Holmes remained completely calm. Watson quickly moved to block Sir Eustace's path, while Amelia shifted very slightly in her chair, ready to jump up to stand in front of her husband, if need be. Holmes merely continued speaking as though the man hadn't just moved to hit him, "We'll do our best to save your life tonight, but first it would help if you would explain your connection to the Ricoletti case".

Sir Eustace blinked and looked at him quickly, licking his lips as his eyes flickered around to Amelia and Watson, "Ricoletti?" he said hesitantly.

"Indeed," Amelia eyed him closely, observing his expression closely, "The more you can tell us, the better," she gave him a slightly cold smile.

He paused for a moment, his eyes far too wide, "I've never heard of her," he replied, though he couldn't look any guiltier if he was trying. Amelia could even see the first start of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

"Interesting," Holmes commented, narrowing his eyes. He glanced at Amelia, who barely hid her smile as they both looked back to Sir Eustace, "I didn't mention she was a woman," he gave him a tight lipped smile as Sir Eustace looked suddenly very pale, swallowing nervously, "We'll show ourselves out," he moved around Amelia's chair, holding his hand out to her, which she took as she gracefully rose to her feet. He didn't released her hand as he began to turn towards the door with Watson on their heels, saying over his shoulder to Sir Eustace, "I hope to see you again in the morning".

"You will not!" Sir Eustace called angrily after them, trying to regain some of his dignity, pushing his blazer back roughly.

"Then sadly we shall be solving your murder," Holmes said without looking back to him, his voice light and casual, "Good day".

Amelia allowed herself a wide smile as they slipped out of the room and began to walk through a smaller room, heading towards the large, main hall, their feet sounding on the polished wooden floorboards. She knew she probably shouldn't encourage such behaviour from Holmes's given that it really wasn't very professional or proper, but she simply couldn't help it. It was far to amusing seeing the shocked expression on Sir Eustace's reddening face.

"Nicely done, darling," she murmured into his ear as they walked, earning a fleeting smile from him and even a rare wink.

Watson heaved a heavy sigh as Holmes quickly busied himself with reaching into his tweed blazer breast pocket, pulling a notepad out of his pocket and a small pencil, flipping it open to scribble something inside it, "Well, you tried," he said, glancing over to his two friends.

They reached the main hall, a grandfather clock lightly ticking away throughout the room as a large, sweeping marble staircase lead to the upper levels and a large pot sat by the bottom of the stairs with a palm tree inside it. A footman was walking through the hallway as they entered and Holmes slowed their pace as they approached him.

"Will you see that Lady Carmichael receives this?" Holmes stopped the man, holding the slip of paper out to him, which the man took quickly.

"Yes, sir," the footman bowed his head respectfully, the note clasped in his white gloved hand.

"Thank you," he nodded to the man, slipping the notepad and pencil away, "Good afternoon…" he began to lead the way across the hall once more, moving towards the entrance, Amelia and Watson close beside him.

Watson cast him a curious look, "What was that?"

"Lady Carmichael will sleep alone tonight, on the pretence of a violent headache. All the doors and windows of the house will be locked".

They turned a corner and stepped through to a short, narrower hallway, though no less grand with high, arched stone windows and finely carved pale coloured wood trimmings running along the arched doorway. The wooden doors had been left open, allowing a cool draft of fresh air to drift through from the outside. Amelia gave Holmes a small, gentle smile as she reached up to take his coat off the pegs that lined one side of the wall, leaving his hat on one of the pegs, assisting him into his coat and smoothing his lapels down, Watson doing the same on his other side.

"Ah," Watson said with a nod, whipping his scarf down off the peg, "You think the spectre…" he hesitated at the disapproving frowns Amelia and Holmes gave him, closing his eyes briefly, "…er, the Bride…" he corrected himself, slipping the scarf around his neck, "Will attempt to lure Sir Eustace outside again?"

"Of course she shall, Watson," Amelia replied instead, passing Holmes his hat to put on for himself. She turned towards Watson with a delicate eyebrows raised, while he slipped his coat on, "Have you forgotten the threat that Sir Eustace received? ' _This night you will die_ ,'" she dropped the mock ghostly tone she used as she repeated the words, shaking her head lightly, "Only fools and cowards make ideal threats, and I do not think this Bride to be either".

Watson frowned very slightly, throwing a quick glance back over his shoulder, towards the entrance of the hall they had just passed through, "Well, he won't follow her, surely?" he turned back to the detectives.

"It's difficult to say just _what_ he'll do," Holmes remarked, reaching into his coat pocket, shooting Watson a quick look as he retrieved his gloves out, "Guilt is eating away at his soul".

"Guilt?" he looked up in confusion and mild alarm, pulling his own gloves on, eyeing Holmes, "About what?"

"Obviously something he has done in his past, Watson," Amelia said lightly, though she was frowning faintly, looking thoughtfully passed Watson and over to the door, "An indiscretion from his youth, perhaps?" she paused for a moment, considering it, before shaking her head once more, "It seems to be the most logical of explanation for the warning delivered to him in form of those mysterious orange pips".

"Not a joke?"

"Not at all," Holmes shook his head, making Watson look up again, "Orange pips are traditional warning of avenging death, originating in America," he reached for his hat still on the peg, before turning to head towards the open front door, offering Amelia his elbow, which she took, "Sir Eustace knows this only too well, just as he knows why he is to be punished".

He glanced at him sideways, slipping his own bowler hat on as they made their way down the short hallway, stepping outside onto the grand, stone entrance porch that looked out over the driveway. He frowned slightly at the detectives, "Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti," he said.

"I presume," he agreed, not looking at him, his eyes fixed ahead of them, "We all have a past, Watson".

"Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully as they came to a stop on the edge of the stone flooring of the porch, just before the gravel of the drive, looking out over the beautiful green fields that surrounded the grand old mansion.

"And some pasts are better left forgotten," Amelia murmured softly, her mind returning to her brother. She seemed to be doing that quite frequently, thinking of James and all the terrible acts he committed before his death, all the pain he put her through during those years she thought she had lost Holmes, forced to raise their infant children as a widower with no knowledge that her husband still lived and worked to destroy the spiders web of crime her brother had built for himself across the world. James was her past, a past she could never truly ever rid herself of, no matter how much time passed or how far she tried to move forward, he had been her brother, her twin, no matter what they would forever be tied together. Not even death could change that.

"Ghosts…" Holmes said quietly, lightly drawing Amelia just that touch closer to his side, sensing where her thoughts had gone without even needing to see her face, "They are the shadows that define our every sunny day. Sir Eustace knows he's a marked man," he frowned slightly, dragging his eyes off the idyllic view before them to glance across to Amelia and Watson, Watson casting a quick look back over his shoulder to the door at the mention of their condemned client, "There's something more than murder he fears," he went on gravely, "He believes he is to be dragged to Hell by the risen corpse of the late Mrs Ricoletti".

A heavy silence fell over their small group, Watson staring at Holmes and Amelia with wide eyes for a long moment, before looking back towards the fields. Amelia watched the side of his face closely, her expression very grave and serious. After a moment, he drew a deep breath.

"That's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?"

" _God_ , yes," Holmes said at once, wrinkling his nose slightly.

Amelia couldn't hold back the faint laugh any longer, her serious expression melting away, "You must admit, Watson," she commented with a smile, winking cheekily at him, "Holmes had you going for a moment there".

Watson sighed slightly, shooting them both a slightly annoyed look.

"Did you bring your revolver?" Holmes suddenly asked him, watching him intently.

He blinked, startled, "What good would that be against a ghost?"

"Exactly. Did you bring it?"

"Yeah, of course," Watson nodded at once, looking back out across the driveway, calm.

"Then come, Watson, Amelia, come," Holmes looked back out before them, too, almost smiling as he slipped his deerstalker on, "The game is afoot!"

Amelia smiled brightly and allowed him to lightly drag her alongside him, stepping onto the gravel driveway that clinked loudly beneath their feet. Only Sherlock Holmes could possibly find the notion of spending a no doubt cold, long night watching for a ghostly Bride to appear to murder a man fun. Or her, for that matter.

….

That evening, as the sun began to slowly sink and the moon began to rise in the clouded, night sky, the detectives and Watson dined on a small, simple meal of sandwiches made for them by the households cook. Simple as it was, Amelia found that she enjoyed each bite as though it was a lavish meal, long since accustomed to taking meals where and when they could while out on a case, a far cry from the meals of her upbringing where one was expected to dress in fine, formal gowns before sitting down to eat. She didn't miss it, she had always rather thought it a little silly that woman were expected to change their clothing so much during one day, especially when it could take quite some time to even change out of one dress for another. Since her marriage to Holmes, she had found that she had grown to prefer the lifestyle that they lived, though she would hardly call it simple, it was certainly more practical in nature.

After their quick supper, they made their way across the darkened grounds of the estate, a thick mist slowly beginning to grow as a light spattering of rain began to fall, making it all the more harder for them to walk without falling, or rather it was for Amelia, who found herself in danger more than once of accidently tripping on something unseen in the dark. The one benefit to the darkness was that she was able to conceal her blush when Holmes had laughed softly after her third near miss, gently taking her arm in his and providing her some comfort in the knowledge that if she did trip, he'd be able to save her…or she would take him down with her. That was almost just as good, in her mind.

They settled themselves in the small greenhouse on the edge of the grounds, the air smelling of damp earth and compost as they settled themselves on a few old, wooden boxes that had been tucked away beneath the potting benches lining the walls, glass windows providing them with the perfect view of the house, even through the darkness and mist. In the distance, they could see lights on, illuminating the windows of two of the bedrooms, one Lady Carmichael's and the other Sir Eustace's, while the couple took to their separate rooms, as per Holmes's request.

Silence fell over them as they waited; Amelia bundled up in a long, black tweed coat over her white dress and her hat absent. She had replaced her useless lace gloves with warmer leather gloves, her breath coming out in light puffs of mist as she stared tiredly up at the house, feeling the boredom of the wait and the ach of sitting for so long settling over her. She adored her work, but the waiting truly was something she hated. She couldn't help wondering if the children had behaved themselves, no doubt they would be fast asleep by now and at that thought, she couldn't help feeling a tinge of guilt and regret at the notion of having missed the chance to wish them goodnight. She would see them tomorrow, she dearly hoped.

Time seemed to slow down, every tick feeling like hours, while their silence only grew and the chill seeped to sink deep into their bones. After a while, Watson gave an uncomfortable grunt and tried to shift positions on his box, standing up slightly, hunched over as he tried to give his leg a slight shake.

"Get down, Watson, for heaven's sake!" Holmes snapped, giving him a sharp look, visible even through the dim lighting cast over the grounds by the moon.

"Sorry," Watson hurriedly sat back down, grimacing painfully as he grabbed at his left leg, "Cramp," he tried rubbing his offending leg, while Amelia looked sympathetically at him. He sighed slightly after a moment, "Is the, er, lamp still burning?"

Amelia looked back over towards the house, eyeing the lights glowing in the two windows along the upper floor of the house, "I'm afraid so," she replied with a bored tone, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin in the palm of her hand, ignoring the resistance of her corset as she was forced to bend slightly. She'd had Holmes loosen it for her earlier in the evening before they had gone down to the green house, not caring to have to sit for hours on end with her chest so tightly bound and constricted, providing her with slightly more room to breathe.

She remembered the days before their marriage, when she had been forced to suffer through the discomfort, until one case when she simply couldn't bare it any longer and had to practically demand that Holmes help her loosen the lacings. The expression on his face, crossed between bafflement, horror, and embarrassment had been priceless, never before had she seen him look quite so like any normal man before, but she had figured it was better to ask Holmes to help her then Watson, who probably would have fainted at the mere mention of her foundation garments. She supposed, looking back, she ought to have known back then that there was something more between them, after all, she might consider herself to be a modern woman, but even she couldn't claim to be completely comfortable with the idea of a man aiding her with something so personal and private as that, but she had felt relatively comfortable with Holmes aiding her. Though, if she had been able to do it herself or had another female present, she certainly would have preferred that, no matter how amusing his expression had been. She was, after all, a lady.

One of the lights in the house disappearing pulled Amelia from her memories, making her eyes flicker up through the window to the now darkened window.

"There goes Sir Eustace," Holmes remarked, watching the house closely, just as the second light went out in one of the windows, "And Lady Carmichael. The house sleeps".

"Finally," Amelia breathed, resisting against the urge to yawn in utter boredom, rather than from lack of sleep. She was quite used to late nights, but even after all these years, she still struggled with the lack of amusement such cases as this usually provided. One must be aware at all times, watchful and observant, which meant that there was little use for card games or reading.

Watson seemed to agree with her, inhaling deeply as he lightly shook his head, looking just as bored as she felt, "Mmm, good _God_ ," he groaned loudly, rolling his eyes upwards in frustration, "This is the longest night of my life".

Amelia glanced at him, her face partly hidden in the shadows, "Clearly you have never experienced labour," she said, watching him, "Thirty two hours, Watson, is a _very_ long time, especially while in constant agony".

He winced, shifting slightly on his box, while Holmes looked oddly amused, "Yes, well…" he cleared his throat, really unable to come up with much to say to that. Instead, he hastily reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time, tilting it slightly into the light, "Only midnight…" he muttered, tucking it back away inside his pocket. There was another brief moment of silence, before he leaned forward slightly, "You know, it's rare for us three to sit together like this".

"I would hope so," Holmes said lightly, his gaze on the window, watching the house, "It's murder on the knees," he smiled, glancing at Watson and Amelia.

Amelia laughed faintly, while Watson smiled back at him, "I think we're getting old," she sighed, absently tugging at her coat, pulling it tighter to her body, "Once upon a time, we could sit for hours on end, in the cold, with little discomfort. Ah, to be young…" she looked back to Holmes, giving him a little smirk.

"You're hardly an old woman, Amelia," he gave her a pointed look, which only made her smirk widen.

"Hmm…" Watson hummed lightly again, glancing between them, "Three old friends, just talking, chewing the fat…" he sighed slightly, his eyes flickering back between them, "…man to…" he paused, clearing his throat, seeming to catch himself before he went on, "…woman…"

There was a slightly awkward silence that fell over them, Amelia lifting an eyebrow curiously at Watson, while Holmes frowned slightly before letting his gaze wonder back over to the house. She, however, was still watching Watson.

"Yes, Watson?" she asked him after a long, no less awkward silence that seemed to go on, "Do you wish to say something?"

"Oh…" he blinked slightly, shifting again under her sharp eyes, "I was just…thinking," he looked away from Amelia, who narrowed her eyes, looking outside the window, "She's a remarkable woman".

"Who?" Holmes frowned again, looking quickly back to Watson, "Amelia?" his eyes flickered over to her, his lips lifting very slightly before he seemed to remember that Watson was present and quickly looked back over to the other man, "Yes, of course she is, Watson. Have you lost all sense?"

"He wasn't referring to me, Holmes," Amelia rolled her eyes, though she couldn't deny that she felt rather pleased by his compliment. Holmes was not the type of man to say flattering things very often, after all, "I believe he was speaking of Lady Carmichael".

Holmes blinked slightly, glancing back over to Watson, finding the other man watching him with an amused, knowing look on his face. Yes, of course Watson would no doubt be amused, he seemed to take pleasure in the rare moments that Holmes showed that he was capable of feeling emotion, just like any other man. His little remark about Amelia, implying that he felt her to be a remarkable woman, while completely true, had been a small slip of showing his more 'human' side. But of course he felt that Amelia was remarkable, he had always viewed her as such, even before they had began their romance, she was, in his mind, one of the most singularly intelligent and impressive people that he had the pleasure of meeting throughout his life. Not that he would ever admit to anyone, _ever_ , not even upon pain of death, that he viewed her so highly. He was not in the habit of allowing such grossly sentimental words to spill from his mouth, it simply wasn't him.

"I see," he said, attempting to sound dismissive, turning his attention back onto the house so that he didn't have to see Watson's amused, knowing little smile, "The fair sex is your department, Watson," he lightly shrugged, hoping to end the conversation before he embarrass himself further.

"But you liked her, Lady Carmichael," Watson insisted, apparently not ready to give up quite yet, "A 'woman of rare perception'. Did you not once refer to Mrs Holmes in such a complimentary fashion in the past?" he pretended to look thoughtful, remembering quite clearly that Holmes had said those very words upon introducing Amelia to him all those years ago, when they first formed their unusual partnership.

"Oh, yes, Watson," Amelia nodded slowly, smiling faintly, eyeing the side of her husband's face, "I do believe you are quite correct".

"I say many things," Holmes gave them a tight lipped smile, truly wishing they would drop the conversation, for he sensed that it would only led to embarrassment on his part, in the end. It had nothing to do with Lady Carmichael, but rather, he deduced, himself and no doubt Amelia. Watson truly did seem to try and make it his life's ambition to try to prove that Holmes was just an ordinary man beneath it all. He gave Watson a narrowed eyed glare, "What has gotten into you this evening, Watson?" he questioned, a hint of annoyance lacing his tone.

"We are friends, after all, Holmes. I just simply wish to have a perfectly _normal_ conversation…"

"Please _don't_ ," he muttered, his eyes fixed steadily on the window. He didn't know quite what Watson's desired end result was from this little conversation, though he suspected that he was attempting to force himself reveal his emotions in relation to Amelia, or something close to that effect. Was Watson truly that bored? And as for Amelia, she knew well enough of how he felt for her, they were husband and wife, after all, with two children, but no doubt she was simply searching for some amusement too. She did seem to enjoy watching him squirm.

"Oh, come now, Holmes. Admit it".

"Admit _what_?"

"Admit that beneath the apathetic, unfeeling exterior that you use to hide behind, lies a man with just as much feeling and urges as any other".

Holmes stared at him in disbelief and annoyance, noting that Amelia was watching him with a hint of concern in her dark eyes, apparently sensing that this little game was starting to get out of hand, "Pass me your revolver," he glared at Watson, turning his attention back onto him, "I have a sudden need to use it".

"Damn it, Holmes, you are flesh and blood. You have feelings…!"

"Dear Lord," Holmes said through gritted teeth, closing his eyes in exasperation, "I have never been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost".

"Alright," Amelia cut in firmly, just as Watson opened his mouth to go on. She reached out to lightly touch Holmes's arm, the gesture hidden by the darkness of the greenhouse. She looked between both men, giving them a slight smile that looked to tense to be real, "As much as it's been amusing to watch you make my husband squirm, Watson, I do rather think we ought to focus on the task at hand," she cleared her throat and pointedly looked back towards the window, her eyes fixed on the darkened house.

Thankfully, Watson and Holmes both seemed to do the same beside her, silence falling over the small group once more, much to Amelia's relief. She didn't see any harm in letting Watson push Holmes slightly the way he had, but she wouldn't allow it to go too far. There was a thin line between amusement and hurt feelings, at times, and she had little desire to witness anyone get hurt, least of all Watson and Holmes. Watson would always push Holmes to stop pretending not to feel, just as Holmes would always resist against admitting to be fundamentally human, while Amelia would do her best to try and ensure that neither man went too far and actually ended up getting into a real fight over the matter.

"Good God!" Watson suddenly exclaimed, his eyes widening, staring at something out the window. Amelia blinked and squinted her eyes slightly, absently pushing her glasses up her nose, only to gasp very slightly at the sight of a ghostly figure dressed in a bridal gown floating in the dark archway of the front porch of the house, illuminated with a golden light, her face hidden by a veil, "What are we to do?" he asked in a whisper, unable to take his eyes off the phantom.

Even while they watched, Amelia's heart thumping in her chest, the Bride raised its right hand out towards them, seeming to know perfectly well their hiding place, beckoning them to come to her.

Holmes seemed completely unconcerned by the phantom, "Why don't we have a chat?" he said calmly, before jumping up off his box and moving towards the door.

Amelia sucked in a sharp breath and hastily rose; reminding herself firmly that there was no such thing as ghosts and that this was certainly not the time to start believing in them, hurrying after Holmes, while Watson took a moment longer, gaping incredulously at the two of them before also hurrying to follow them. They quickly left the greenhouse and ran through the gardens, the bottom of Amelia's dress and coat instantly getting soaked with water and mud, but she paid it little mind as she kept pace with Holmes, the three of them dashing up a set of steps that led up onto the gravel driveway, racing across the pebbles towards the ghostly Bride.

"Mrs Ricoletti, I believe!" Holmes called to the Bride as they neared it, stopping just outside the front of the porch, but the ghost seemed to have moved back away from them, her head lowered and drifting a good few inches from off the ground, one hand still reaching out towards them, "Pleasant night for the time of year, isn't it?" he continued, just as calmly, though he was watching the figure closely.

Watson grabbed his arm, staring wide eyed at the ghost, "It cannot be true, Holmes," he gasped, "It _cannot_!"

"Not, it can't," Holmes agreed, lowering his voice as they watched the Bride drift backwards from them, slowly fading into nothingness.

Suddenly, a terrible, male scream rang out from within the house, making them whirl away from the ghost, towards the still completely dark house. The scream stopped just as quickly as it had begun, just as the sound of glass smashing sounded from somewhere close by. Amelia quickly threw a looked back over her shoulder towards were the ghost had been, but it was completely gone now, leaving no trace of it ever having been there. She shook her head and turned to see that Holmes had taken off running towards the front door, shaking the doorhandle to try opening it.

"Is it locked?" Watson asked him, turning to watch.

Holmes reappeared from out of the shadows of the porch, nodding as he stepped quickly back over to them, "As per instructed," he said as he looked around, searching for any sign of the ghost.

"Did you hear that noise?" Amelia looked between them, frowning deeply, still feeling her heart pounding in her chest. The adrenaline was coursing through her veins, making her feel on edge and more jumpy than usual, while her mind struggled to understand what she had just witnessed, "It…it sounded like glass being smashed," she looked back up to the house, trying to see if anything was wrong, "Maybe a window? But _why_?"

Holmes glanced over to her briefly before shaking his head, "There's only one broken window we need to concern ourselves with," he told her, focusing on the main problem right now, which was getting inside the house to investigate the source of the scream. A smashed window was something to look into later.

Amelia nodded hastily, already knowing what he planned to do, even before he had taken off running towards one of the ground windows of the house a short distance away from the front door. The odd occurrence of breaking glass was a detail for later, though one that certainly made a memory of an old magic show briefly flash through her mind, before she quickly pushed it aside. She stood back with Watson as Holmes used his elbow to smash the window before them, using his gloved fist to smash the rest of the glass left along the edges of the window before he climbed through, turning quickly back around, reaching his arms out towards Amelia to help her struggle through. Well, struggle was probably not the best word, considering that he practically pulled her through without waiting for her to even try to struggle with getting her leg and skirts through the window, grabbing her arms and pulling her through. The sound of fabric ripping sounded, but with the amount of mud caked onto her dress, she really could care less about it as she managed to get through with a slight stumble into Holmes's chest, before righting herself. Watson climbed in after her, much more gracefully then her.

Holmes had already untangled himself from Amelia, grabbing a box of matches out of his pocket and pulling a match out, lighting it as he turned his attention onto a small lantern that had been left sitting on the table that was against the wall, "Stay in here, Watson," he ordered him as he lit the lantern.

"What?" Watson gave him a startled look, frowning, "No!"

"You must, Watson," Amelia said quickly, turning towards him, "The house is completely locked, no one can enter, nor exit, save through that window…" she pointed back towards the broken window they had just climbed through, "You must remain here and ensure that no one escapes. Fear not, we will return as quickly as possible," she reassured him, absently reaching out to squiz his arm, just as Holmes picked up the lit lantern and began to move towards the door.

Watson frowned after them through the dark, "But the sound was so close," he called after them, not at all liking the notion of being left alone, in the dark, with ghosts roaming about, "It _had_ to be from this side of the house".

"Stay here!" Holmes paused to flash his lantern back to him, giving him one last stern look, before spinning back around to keep going.

Amelia followed right beside him, her footsteps sounding horribly loud as her muddy heeled boots clicked on the wooden floors, everything seeming to much bigger and more frightening in the dark of night, save for the pool of light that the lantern held in Holmes's hand cast before them. They dashed across the entrance hall towards the bottom of the stairs, hearing the distant, muffled sounds of a woman's horrified cries. They followed the noise, skipping steps as they dashed up the grand staircase, hearing the cries growing louder and more distressed the closer they neared.

"Wait!" Holmes suddenly grabbed Amelia's arm, just as they reached the landing. He shone the light down at the elaborate carpet beneath their feet and Amelia's eyes widened.

"Blood," she breathed, swallowing hard at the sight of the small, red drops on the floor. She looked back up to Holmes's face, cast into the shadows, "I fear we are too late, Sherlock".

His expression grew grim as he meet her eyes before stepping carefully over the drops of blood, continuing along the landing, Amelia grimacing as she caught sight of more drops of blood staining the carpet as they went, hearing the sound of hurried footsteps behind her. She spared a glance behind her, seeing two young, frightened looking maids hurrying along behind them, having heard the sound of the horrified cries echoing through the house. She followed Holmes around a corner ahead of them and stopped short, finding Lady Carmichael standing within a doorway of a bedroom, wearing her nightgown and looking utterly stricken. A pool of blood was soaking into the carpet before her.

"Oh my God…" Amelia breathed, one hand moving to cover her mouth at the sight of Lady Carmichael's face, the maids skirting around herself and Holmes to move towards their mistress.

"You promised to keep him safe," Lady Carmichael breathed harshly, glaring furiously at them. She looked close to collapsing, Holmes staring back at her with wide eyes, "You _promised_!" she began sobbing, not looking away from them as her maids gently took her arms, "You…" she broke off with a gasp, her cries shaking her entire body.

"I'm…I'm so sorry…" Amelia found herself saying, her voice barely above a whisper, feeling guilt wash over her at the utterly furious, devastated look on the other woman's face. Beside her, she felt Holmes take her hand and tug her out of the room, for which she felt grateful for the chance to escape from the look in Lady Carmichael's eyes, unable to bare seeing it any longer.

They stepped back out onto the landing, Holmes using the lantern to light up the trail of blood on the carpet as they carefully followed it. The blood trail carried on through an archway further down the landing and they quickly slipped through it, moving down a long hallway, until they came across a doorway that had been slightly ajar, the trail taking them through it and up a set of wooden stairs that were far more narrow and winding then the main staircase had been. They hurried up it and came to a brief pause on the landing, finding themselves standing in the middle of a narrow hallway of the servants quarters, the ceiling sloping above their heads. Holmes flashed the lantern down one side of the hallway, but it was empty, it was only when he turned the light in the other direction that they found what they had been looking for.

A man lying partly down the hallway, his back to them, lying on his side with something sticking out of his chest. Amelia took a deep breath as they edged closer to the body, Holmes bending down to roll the body over onto his back. Sir Eustace's shocked face stared back up at them, his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping, while an ornately-handled dagger stuck out of his chest, blood staining his white nightshirt from around the dagger. Amelia very nearly had a heart attack at the shrill, terrified scream that sounded from behind them, her head snapping back to see that one of the maid's had stepped outside her room and caught sight of Sir Eustace's body, screaming hysterically at the sight.

"Bloody hell," Amelia breathed, reaching up to cover her racing heart, "This entire case…it's enough to make one die of fright…" she trailed off, her eyes widening as she looked down at Sir Eustace face, the utterly terrified expression still etched upon it.

"Fear…" Holmes murmured, his head snapping up to her, catching on to what she had, "Watson!"

He took off running, Amelia right on his heels as they dashed back down the stairs and down along the hallway below. They could still hear Lady Carmichael's sobbing as they made it onto the landing, but they struggled to ignore it as they hurried down the sweeping staircase, just managing to reach the bottom as Watson came running across the hall, backing back, accidently bumping into Holmes as they stepped down from the last step. Watson gave a startled gasp, breathing heavily as he whirled around to face them, looking very pale and frightened.

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, frowning at his fright.

"She's there!" Watson gasped out, frantically pointing back towards the corridor they had broken into. Amelia looked at him in concern, reaching out to take his arm, trying to calm him, though it provide to be of little use, "She's down there!" he told them urgently, positively shaking, which was truly a sight in itself.

Holmes narrowed his eyes sternly, shining his lantern in his face, "Don't tell me you abandoned your post," he said sharply, not in the slightest bit sympathetic to his obvious fear.

"Sherlock," Amelia said disapprovingly, giving him a quick look, "Can you not see that the man is terrified?" she shook her head, turning to focus on Watson, ignoring the annoyed expression that crossed Holmes's face, "Watson, calm down and speak plainly. What did you see?"

"Her!" Watson cried, seemingly almost beside himself. He even pointed his revolve towards the hallway, making Amelia frowning slightly, gently pushing his arm back down before he ended up shooting something, "The _Bride_! I saw her!"

Holmes hurried over towards the doorway, Amelia and Watson following behind him as they dashed back into the room, smashed glass crunching beneath their feet as they skidded to a stop before the broken window. Holmes waved the lantern around, checking the room before turning to glare angrily at Watson.

"Empty, thanks to you!" he snapped at him, "Our bird is flown".

"No!" Watson shook his head firmly, still looking urgently between Amelia and Holmes, seeming to be trying to force them to understand, "No, Holmes, it wasn't what you think. I saw her, the ghost…"

"THERE ARE NO GHOSTS!" Homes shouted, positively beyond furious and frustrated, having enough of listening to people insisting that a woman had returned from the dead to kill. He levelled Watson with his glare.

Amelia took a deep breath, looking carefully between both men, "Let's just…calm down," she said softly, inwardly quite startled by how upset Holmes looked. He so rarely ever shouted like that, he was usually so controlled with his temper. She reached out and lightly touched his arm, making him sigh and finally look away from Watson, some of the anger in his face fading, "It's been a long night," she went on carefully, her shoulders slumping as she remembered Lady Carmichaels expression, "A very long night, indeed".

"What happened?" Watson asked, looking concerned, eyeing their suddenly wary expressions, "Where is Sir Eustace?"

Holmes hesitated, glancing at Amelia, "Dead," he answered, his tone grim.

….

It took until the early hours of the morning for Scotland Yard to finally arrive at the manor house, while Amelia, Watson, and Holmes took care to ensure that the body of Sir Eustace was undisturbed. It was far from how Amelia had hoped their investigation would go, frowning to herself as she stood up in the hallway by the top of the stairs, watching while the police photographer began taking pictures of the body. It took a short time for him to finish, all the while Amelia continued to feel the weight of their failure to protect Sir Eustace weighing down against her chest. She had not seen the now windowed Lady Carmichael; the poor woman had naturally taken to her room and had refused to speak to any of them, not that Amelia could blame her.

"You really mustn't blame yourself, you know," Lestrade remarked as he stood amongst Holmes, Amelia, and Watson, eyeing the dark expressions on the detectives faces, while the police photographer finished up and disappeared down the stairs, leaving them alone.

Amelia glanced at him, giving him a look that clearly told him how little she agreed with his sentiment, while Holmes inhaled sharply, "No, you're quite right," he nodded absently, refusing to look at either Watson or Lestrade.

"I'm glad you're seeing sense," Watson said, his arms folded over his chest as he looked over towards the body.

"Watson is equally capable," he continued, his expression growing darker with barely suppressed anger. Watson sighed, exchanging a look with Lestrade, "The three of us have managed to botch this whole case," he glanced over to both men, narrowing his eyes at them, "Amelia and I gave an undertaking to protect this man, now he's lying there with a dagger in his breast…" he pointed angrily over towards Sir Eustace's body, but he still refused to look at the body, his eyes fixing on the wall instead.

Amelia looked between Lestrade and Watson, her expression cold, "And now, due to our failure, two children shall be forced to grow up without their father," she told them, her voice carefully void of emotion, not wishing to show just how upset she truly felt over the whole disaster of a case, "We assured Lady Carmichael that we would keep her husband safe, but we could not even do that. We have completely betrayed that professional trust".

Watson sighed again, unfolding his arms from over his chest and turning his back of the detectives, walking towards the body, "In fact, you gave an undertaking to investigate his murder," he reminded them, crouching down by Sir Eustace's head, eyeing the body.

"In the confident expectation we would not have to," Holmes snapped at him, his voice rising with anger, glaring hotly at the back of Watson's head, before turning away once more to switch his glare to the wall.

Lestrade glanced at Holmes and Amelia, eyeing their dark, angry expressions for a moment, before seeming to decide that it was best to let them be for the moment. Instead, he looked over towards Watson, "Anything you can tell us, Doctor?" he asked him, calling down the hallway to him.

Watson studied the body for a moment, "Well, he's been stabbed with considerable force," he replied, eyeing the rather elaborate, swirling handle on the dagger sticking out of the body's chest, made from gold and carefully crafted, not something just anyone would have lying about in their kitchen.

"It's a man, then".

"Possibly".

Lestrade blinked, looking slightly thrown by that, clearly having expected it to be a very simple answer. After all, stabbing someone in the chest like that required a certain amount of force and most women typically used less physically hard methods to kill, preferring poisons that could easily be given without the victims notice, allowing the killer to escape without fear of injury to themselves. Amelia, on the other hand, was not in the slightest bit surprised by Watson's assessment.

"Woman are not nearly as fragile as you may think, Lestrade," Amelia said, giving him a sharp look. She brought her hands together down the front of her still muddy, slightly damp skirts, having removed her coat earlier, "A man can just as easily be stabbed by a woman, it rather suggests to me that given the fact that we can deduce that Sir Eustace was stabbed in his bedroom and managed to stumble his way up here, that he knew his killer well. And then you ought to take into account the dagger used, I imagine it came from somewhere within this house, given the elaborate design and expense," she lifted an eyebrow at Lestrade, "Given all of that, it does rather suggest that the killer was someone within or who had spent time within this house".

"But we _know_ who it was," Watson cut in quickly, suddenly rising from his crouch and moving back up the hallway towards them, looking very determined as they all turned to look at him, "I saw her".

Holmes closed his eyes in exasperation, "Watson…" he began quietly, and Amelia sighed, reaching up to rub her forehead, sensing what was to come.

"I saw the ghost with my own two eyes!" he insisted loudly.

"You saw nothing!" Holmes whirled on him, his eyes snapping open to glare angrily at him, "You saw what you were supposed to see".

"You said so yourself: 'I have no imagination!'"

"Then use your brain, such as it is…" Amelia winced very slightly as Holmes's voice grew sharper and more cutting, "…to eliminate the impossible, which in this case is the ghost, and observe what remains, which is _this_ case is a solution so blindingly obvious, even Lestrade could work it out. Amelia practically gave you the answer, as it is!"

Lestrade gave them a sarcastic tilt of his head, "Thank you," he muttered.

Holmes, however, ignored him completely, "Forget spectres from the otherworld," he told Watson, forcing himself to calm down, lowering his voice as Watson looked away, "There is only one suspect with motive and opportunity, just as Amelia so correctly pointed out," he glanced at Amelia as he spoke, who inclined her head in acknowledgment. He shook his head lightly; feeling quite annoyed with himself for not having realised sooner, for having been hoodwinked so easily, "They might as well have left a note".

"They _did_ leave a note," Lestrade commented lightly.

Amelia's head snapped around to him, frowning deeply, "I'm sorry?" she stared at him, confused, "Did you just say…?"

"And then there's the matter of the other broken window," Holmes was saying as he turned towards Watson, giving him a slightly sarcastic smile, oblivious to his wife's puzzlement.

It was Lestrade's turn to be confused, pulling his eyes off Amelia to give Holmes a look, "What other broken window?" he asked, shaking his head.

"Precisely," he said to him, "There _isn't_ one. The only broken in this establishment is the one that Watson, myself, and Mrs Holmes entered through, yet prior to that we distinctly heard the sound of… _What_ did you say?" he suddenly focused intently on Lestrade, pointing at him, his eyes narrowed sharply.

He stared at him blankly, "Sorry?"

"You spoke of a note," Amelia reminded him, speaking quickly as she took a small step towards him. Lestrade looked as though he resisted taking a step away from her, the very serious and intent look in her eyes almost alarming, but if she noticed she showed no sign of relenting, "You said that the killer had left a note, is that not correct?"

"Oh, er, yes, they did…"

"No they didn't," Holmes said firmly, frowning at him, as though he was purposely being an idiot.

"There's a message tied to the dagger," he stared at them as though it was them that had gone insane, looking quite confused and bewildered, "You must have seen it!"

Holmes quickly began to move towards the body, "There's no message…"

"Yes!"

"There was no message when myself and Mrs Holmes found the body," he went on more sharply, but he stopped suddenly as he came to stand above the body, staring down at it before he slowly crouched down, reaching out to touch something hidden from view.

"Holmes?" Amelia called, eyeing his back worriedly as she noticed him tensing, his head slowly lifting up from whatever he had been looking at. She walked towards him, frowning deeply as he stood and took a small step backwards, though he still wasn't looking at anyone, his gaze off down the hallway, disbelief written across his pale face, "Sherlock?" she tried again, softer this time as she reached out to touch his arm, "Sherlock, please…"

Watson moved closer towards the couple, his eyes flickering between them, "What is it?" he questioned, looking quite troubled by Holmes's lack of response to either of them.

Holmes didn't so much as glance at them, his eyes distant and the same stunned expression on his face as he began to back away, Amelia letting him go. She watched him worriedly as he slowly turned and walked silently over towards the top of the stairs, descending them as though he was completely in his own world, lost in his thoughts. She considered following him, grabbing his shoulders and making him talk to her, but she knew by the look in his eyes that it would only be counterproductive, so instead she turned her attention back onto the body, moving to carefully kneel by it.

Lestrade was right, someone had left a note tied to the body, looking like a luggage label as it laid face down on Sir Eustace's still chest, a piece of string tying the note to the dagger. It hadn't been there before, when they had first found the body, Amelia knew that for fact, feeling her heart rate increasing as she carefully reached out to turn the luggage label over…She inhaled sharply at the words written in black ink:

 **Miss me?**

"No…" she breathed, horrified and sickened, instantly recognising the handwriting, "That's not possible…he's _dead_ ".

The handwriting was something she would recognise anywhere, she knew it almost as well as her own. It was the writing of Professor James Moriarty, her very dead brother.

 _ **I know it's been ages, I did warn you guys that my schooling might impact how often I can update. We're finally starting to get to the truth, Holmes has been skirting around the edge for quite some time now, and Amelia is suspicious that something odd is going on with him. But what will happen once he finally learns that it's all just a dream inside his head? Will he want to leave the life he's built for the uncertainty of the real world? We'll have to wait and see.**_

 _ **As always, Amelia's outfit will be on my Tumblr and Pinterest, for anyone who is interested. Tell me what you thought, please review :)**_


	6. Chapter 6 Miss Me?

_**Miss Me?**_

" _Do_ you?"

Holmes frowned slightly at the sound of Mycroft's voice behind him, suddenly finding himself standing within the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club, the very same room that he had spoken to Mycroft in the previous day. He didn't recall arriving within the room, let alone boarding the train back to London or even leaving the Carmichaels country estate, but yet there was no mistake that he was no longer walking down the staircase of the grand old house.

His mind was still buzzing, puzzling over the mysterious note written in the hand of Professor Moriarty himself and left on the body of Sir Eustace, a note that was impossible for many reasons. Logic would reason that there was a simple explanation for everything, from the note to his sudden appearance in London, but even he could only solve but one complex mystery at a time, so he settled for the one most pressing: the note. If Moriarty was indeed still alive and well somewhere, that meant that they were all in danger, Amelia and their children first and foremost.

Holmes had little concern for his own safety, he had gone up against Moriarty before and won, though only by sheer luck and cleverness, but Amelia and the twins were vulnerable, easy targets, and Moriarty would undoubtedly find it most amusing to go after them in order to get to Holmes, what would it matter to Moriarty if it was his own sister and niece and nephew? Blood relation had not stopped him from trying to murder Amelia in the past. No, it would likely only make the game all the more fun for him to target them, likely using the twins as a means to strike at Holmes and Amelia worse than he had in the past. But _how_? How was it even possible for a dead man to be suddenly alive? Moriarty had died, Holmes had been so certain of it, he hadn't given up two years of his life, missing out on those early years of his family's life, destroying Moriarty's empire just for the man to turn out to still be alive.

"Do I what?" he found himself asking aloud in response to Mycroft's question, turning around to face his brother sitting in the same chair he had been the previous day. Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and casually held up the luggage label with the words 'Miss Me?' scrawled across it in black ink, stained with Sir Eustace's blood. He stared at it, inhaling sharply, "How did you get that?" he pointed at the label, frowning in confusion, "I left that at the crime scene".

Mycroft gave him a bemused look, "'Crime scene?'" he repeated, turning the label in his thick fingers, eyeing the message before placing the label down on the small table beside his chair, calmly folding his hands over his massive stomach, "Where ever do you pick up these extraordinary expressions? _Do_ you miss him?"

Holmes gave him a cool look, "Do I _miss_ the man who terrified my wife for most of her life?" he said to him with a hint of annoyance entering his tone. In all the years he had known Amelia, no one scared her more than her own brother and while he may not be prone to sentimental emotions, he did love Amelia, despite all the odds and the best of his ability to stop himself from succumbing to such weakness. It had been yet another reason for why he had worked so hard to completely destroy Moriarty's empire, "Moriarty is dead, Mycroft," he turned away from Mycroft, but even as he spoke the words, his chest tightened with apprehension.

"And yet…?" his brother trailed off pointedly.

"His body was never recovered," he breathed, staring at the wooden, panelled wall directly ahead of him.

"To be expected when one pushes a maths professor over a waterfall. Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama: your life in a nutshell".

Holmes slowly turned back around to face him, eyeing him, "'Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?'" he shot back at him, though his voice still remained soft, bright morning sunlight streaming in through the windows set high in the panelled wall.

His eyes landed on the painting hanging between two of the windows, staring at the familiar work of art. Turner's 'Fall of the Reichenbach,' a painting done of a waterfall streaming over a jiggered cliff into the depths of a valley below, rocks and broken trees dotting the muted colours of the landscape. As he stared at the piece of art, a distant memory came to mind and he could almost smell the scent of vanilla in the air, filling his senses as it always did. Amelia…it always reminded him of her, making him close his eyes…

….

 _He was standing in the middle of Baker's Street's living room, but something felt different, though he couldn't tell for certain. Everything felt dark, half-obscured and blurred, making it near impossible to make out the details, but he was certain it was a memory, though he had no recollection of the event ever occurring. It was almost as if it was from another life, as though he was connected to it but yet distant at the same time. Amelia stood before him and while she was blurred and partly hidden by the darkness, he could make out the flash of red painted lips and her dark brown eyes, looking at him almost in amusement. Why on Earth was she wearing makeup? Amelia never wore make up, only women on the night or on the stage wore it, and certainly not such a bold streak of red like that._

' _No, I'm not going, Amelia,' his own voice floated through his mind, sounding distant, but the annoyance was clear to hear, 'You and John go, I'd rather not be surrounded by a bunch of wealthy idiots and press. I get enough of that as it is'._

' _Don't be grumpy, Sherlock,' Amelia's voice drifted through his mind, painted red lips stretching into a smile, 'Look, all you have to do is smile, say 'thank you,' and pose for a quick picture. Hey, maybe even have a glass of champagne…'_

' _This is absurd, why do they want us to even be there?'_

 _She rolled her eyes at him, 'They're thanking us for getting the painting back, it's what people do'._

' _Why? It was a case, we solved it, now why do we have to be thanked for it? No one has ever felt the need to thank us in the past'._

' _Sherlock…" she had sighed, giving him a hard, tired look, 'Just shut up and get your coat on, we're due at the gallery in twenty minutes and I am not going with you wearing that dressing gown. Honestly, you're thirty four years old; this really shouldn't be this hard…It's like dealing with a toddler…'_

' _I heard that!'_

' _Good! Now hurry up, it's not easy being the only one who puts effort into their appearance around here, you know'._

' _Oh, thanks!'_

' _Ah, sorry, John. I didn't see you there…excellent blazer. It's very smart'._

' _Amelia, you picked it out for me, you practically order me to wear the damn thing.'_

' _Well, at least one of you listens to me…'_

….

The memory or dream…whatever it was, ended and Holmes found his eyes snapping open, frowning deeply at the painting before him. Something wasn't right; something very strange was happening and he couldn't seem to understand just what, that dream or memory was all wrong. He had no memory of such a conversation ever occurring between himself and Amelia, and Amelia had certainly never worn bright red lipstick before. And the way she had spoken, it had sounded different, she had never used Watson's first name before, but yet she had sounded so casual as she had spoken it, as though it was normal behaviour for her, just as Watson had used her first name with just as much familiarity, rather than Mrs Holmes or Miss Moriarty. It made little sense to him and he could feel almost a sense of panic begin to wash over him, before he quickly pushed it aside, taking a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. It couldn't possibly be a memory, but a dream…a very lucid dream. He turned back towards his brother, eyeing him.

"Have you put on weight?"

"You saw me only this morning," Mycroft remarked lightly, his hands still folded over his stomach, while Holmes walked closer towards his chair, "Does that seem possible?"

Holmes slowly circled his chair, eyeing him, "No," he said softly, noting yet another thing that didn't make sense. Something very odd was going on…

"Yet here I am, increased. What does that tell the foremost criminal investigator in England?"

He made his way back around his chair, giving him a fleeting frown, "In England?" he questioned, though he was already off trying to make sense of what was truly going on, what he was failing to understand.

Mycroft watched him carefully, his expression grave, "You're in deep, Sherlock," he told him, his tone concerned, "Deeper than you ever intended to be. Have you made a list?"

"Of what?" Holmes asked, wondering calmly away from his chair, his back to him.

" _Everything_ ," Holmes stopped, listening, "We will need a list," something sparked in Holmes's mind and his lips pressed tightly together, Amelia's face flashing through his mind…her lips painted red once more and her eyes, outlined by kohl so that they looked even darker and larger, filled with so much disappointment it made him want to cringe. Reluctantly, he reached into his coat pocket to pull a folded piece of paper out, holding it up for Mycroft to see. His brother nodded to him, "Good boy".

Holmes began to step closer to his brother again, holding the paper towards him as Mycroft held out his hand to take it, when Holmes suddenly pulled it back out of reach, "No," he said firmly, though his voice was soft, scrunching the paper up in his fist as he moved past the chair, ignoring Mycroft's frown, "I haven't finished yet".

Mycroft clasped his hands together again, "Moriarty may beg to differ," he warned him, looking at the wall directly ahead of him.

He released a heavy sigh and brought his hands together beneath his chin, walking backwards a few steps, "He's trying to distract me, to derail me," he murmured, spinning back around as he spoke, looking thoughtful as he paced slowly back into the middle of the room.

"Yes," his brother agreed, nodding, "He's the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment…the virus in the data," his voice grew quieter as he finished, his eyes flickering back up to rest on Holmes, observing his reaction closely.

Holmes stopped and turned back towards him sharply, lowering his hands from beneath his chin. He narrowed his pale blue eyes, "I _have_ to finish this," he insisted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mycroft levelled him with a long, calculating look, "If Moriarty has risen from the Reichenbach cauldron, he _will_ seek you out".

"I will be waiting…"

"He will use Amelia against you," he went on sharply, and instantly Holmes stiffened, "You know he will, Sherlock, he will come for her, just as he did in the past, and this time, he may very well succeed in killing her, because we all know…she is _your_ greatest weakness".

"No, he won't," Holmes replied coolly, determination lacing his words. He straightened himself to his full height, meeting Mycroft's eyes firmly, "I will do whatever I must to ensure that she is safe, I promise you that, brother".

And with that, he turned and swept past Mycroft's chair, heading towards the door.

"Yes," he faintly heard Mycroft say, just as he reached the door, almost sounding sad, "I'm very afraid you will".

Holmes didn't bother to respond, pushing the door open and striding out, knowing what he had to do next…Amelia will be most displeased.

….

After his meeting with Mycroft, Holmes had arrived at Baker Street and announced that William and Agatha, along with Miss Hawkins, would be going to stay at his parent's country home. It was for the best, sending the twins away, if their deranged uncle truly had returned from the dead. Besides, Mr and Mrs Holmes hadn't seen the twins since their birthday; no doubt they would be delighted by the prospect.

"You will be good, won't you?" Amelia said as she knelt before William and Agatha the following morning, holding one of their hands in her own, while they stood before her, already dressed in their coats and travel clothing.

"Yes, Mama," they chorused, their face's glum and sad.

"I'm sure they'll behave themselves perfectly, Amelia," Holmes said calmly, standing beside her, "Just as I imagine mummy will spoil them terribly," he inwardly sighed at the expressions on Agatha and William's faces, obviously not pleased with the idea of leaving London so soon after their parents had returned from going away themselves, "Don't you remember what happened last time?" he lent slightly towards the twins, making them look at him, giving them a little smile, "I do recall a very exciting tale of two detectives in training solving the impossible case of the missing sheep…" instantly, their faces lit up in wide smiles, revealing William's missing front tooth, which had fallen out only the night before, "Not to mention the great mud fight of 1894…"

Amelia smiled softly, looking up to Holmes, who caught her eye and gave her a little smirk and wink. She shook her head, wishing he would show this side of himself more often, rather than just with the children or her, but she would never wish to change him and make him be someone he wasn't. She turned back to the twins.

"Well, we had best not keep you from the many wondrous adventures that await, should we, my darlings?" she lifted Agatha's hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss on the back of her hand, before doing the same to William, before straightening from her crouch.

Holmes lightly brushed his hand against hers as they stood beside each other, watching as Mrs Hawkins ushered the children into the coach waiting outside the door, waving goodbye to the twins as their little hands waved back to them through the windows. They stood on the footpath, looking down the street until the carriage had completely disappeared amongst the rest of the traffic and around the corner, heading towards the train station. After a while, Amelia sighed and glanced at Holmes.

"It's for the best," she said quietly, "They do not need to be here to witness whatever should come next," Holmes remained silent, watching her from the corner of his eyes as she turned slightly towards him, the slight cool breeze in the air making the ruffles on her dress flutter, "Now, Holmes, what do we do next?"

He didn't answer at first, gesturing for to step back inside the house, following behind her and closing the door, before turning back to face her, "Now…" he hesitated, sighing heavily. This was going to be the part she would likely hate the most, but it had to be this way, "Now I think".

Amelia's eyes widened very slightly before she narrowed them, "I know what that means," she said sharply, her lips thinning, "All these years…not once have you felt the need to inject yourself with those poisons, but now? You cannot expect me to support this, Sherlock".

"Indeed not, but I'm not seeking your blessing, Amelia".

"That's all you have to say to me? I'm your wife and you are telling me you intend to pump dangerous chemicals into your own body, but yet you seem completely apathetic about it, and all you have to say is that you don't care if I support this madness?"

"No, actually…" Holmes shook his head, watching her calmly, while she glared angrily at him, "I was going to also suggest that perhaps you ought to spend some time with Miss Hooper. I think it's best if I do this alone, we both know it will only cause you further distress".

Amelia's eyes flashed dangerously and for one moment he thought she might actually hit him, but instead she clenched her fists together tightly, releasing a short, sharp breath, "Yes, of course," she gritted out, her voice shaking with barely suppressed anger, "You wouldn't wish to upset me, would you, _darling_?" she almost spat the word out and Holmes struggled to contain the wince, "Fine, I see that I cannot hope to change your mind, so I shall consider myself dismissed, husband".

She gave him a mock curtsy, while Holmes sighed and barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes at her dramatics, but he was unable to contain that wince that came when he heard the bedroom door slam above his head. It certainly could have been worse…she might have slapped him, but he had to do this. As upset as she might be with his idea, he felt he had little choice if he wished to be at his peak cognitive abilities, and he would need to be, if he had any intention of discovering the truth about Professor James Moriarty. And besides, at least if she was cross with him, she was less likely to wish to be in his company and if his plan worked, he would rather she keep her distance, especially if the devil himself came calling.

…

Over the next two days, Holmes attempted to completely sink himself into his Mind Palace, sitting in the middle of the living room in his blue dressing gown over his day clothing, crossed-legged and facing the fireplace with his eyes closed, his index finger just touching his thumb as his forearms rested on his upper legs. He concentrated on his breathing, following each breath in and out, slow and steady, until he was in a completely relaxed state within his own mind, but even there he couldn't completely escape the memory of Amelia's anger at his plan. She had calmed down slightly before parting for Miss Hooper's apartments, urging him to change his mind and, when it became clear that she would not, making him promise that he would be as careful as possible. She had even kissed him, swiftly and gently, through the open window of the coach door, before the coach had pulled away and disappeared into the traffic, while Holmes just as quickly returned to the quiet of his apartments, away from the eyes of the reporters that had been hovering outside since the death of Sir Eustace had hit the papers.

Mentally, he pushed the memory away, shoving all distractions from his thoughts, instead focusing on the newspaper he had been reading, imagining that he was grabbing newspaper clippings swirling in the air before him between his fingers, bringing them up to his eyes, each one pertaining to a crime committed by the Bride over the past several months that he had mentally collected and stored inside his memory. Absently, he was aware of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade watching him from the living room doorway, but it was but a fleeting thought amongst the whirl of information inside his mind, easily blocking out their whispered conversation to focus on other, more serious details of the articles he read and reread.

It wasn't until after he heard the click of the door snapping closed that he opened his eyes for the first time in hours. He vaguely recalled that it had been the early hours of the morning last time he had opened his eyes, the bright sunlight streaming through the windows blinding him for a moment. Once he was capable of seeing, he reached out and shifted the top newspaper aside as it laid on the floor before him, moving it aside to reveal an open case with a syringe sitting inside the blue velvet lining. He slowly reached down, his fingers hovering over the syringe…he could practically hear Amelia telling him that he was being a fool, that he was using this as an excuse to fall back onto his old, self-destructive habits and that he didn't need the drugs to be brilliant. She was right, every word she had ever said, every argument had truth to it…but that wouldn't stop him because he was desperate and he would do whatever he needed to do, even destroy himself, for those that needed him most. For _her_ , even if it made him want to rebel against the sentimentality of it all.

He took a deep, steadying breath and hoped that Amelia would one day forgive him as he picked up the syringe and reached into the pocket of his dressing gown, removing the leather strap. It hadn't injected himself with any drugs since his marriage, but he hadn't forgotten the process, pulling the arm of his dressing gown and shirt up to prepare the injection site. As he injected the drugs into his veins and slowly felt it begin to take effect, he couldn't help thinking of Amelia and Watson, and how disappointed they were going to be when they found out...

….

Time seemed to pass quickly and he was distantly aware of the fact that at some point the fire in the grating had been lit, crackling as the warmth of the flames washed over his face, but he remained still in his position with his eyes closed and his legs crossed beneath him. And then he sensed a shadow fall over him and a floor board creaked, making him frown very slightly, turning his head very slightly in the direction. It wasn't Amelia, her footsteps were very distinctive, nor was it Watson and Mrs Hudson typically only came up to see him to bring him cups of tea that he hadn't even touched. No…it was someone else, the creaking sounding again from behind him, over by the living room door.

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," the soft, unmistakable voice of Professor James Moriarty drifted through the room.

Holmes didn't even open his eyes, not shifting an inch, "And possibly my answer has crossed yours," he replied just as quietly.

"Like a bullet," he said at normal level, his voice flat.

His eyes snapped open and he remained seated for a moment, his eyes staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace. Slowly, he began to stand from the floor, his right hand slipping into his dressing gown pocket as he straightened, feeling his fingers carefully grasping onto the small gun hidden within his pocket, before turning his attention onto Professor Moriarty. The other man looked just as he had all those years previously, standing with his back to the right-hand window, his dark brown hair sleeked back and dressed in a smart suit, his dark brown eyes eyeing Holmes closely, so like Amelia's, but without the warmth…or humanity. Holmes found that the more and more time he spent in the man's company, the harder it was to see the physical similarities between the two, it almost seemed wrong to try comparing Amelia to Moriarty, in any way.

"It's a dangerous habit," Moriarty remarked lightly, still watching him with an unnerving ability not to blink, "To finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown…" he slowly broke into a unsettling smirk, "Or are you pleased to see me?" his smirk faded and he tilted his head from side to side, crunching the bones in his neck with an unpleasant sound.

Holmes watched him with a hint of distaste in his expression, "Oh, I doubt my wife would approve," he said with a forced smile, "She's hardly a fan of firearms being handled so carelessly, but you'll forgive me for taking precautions".

"Ah, yes…Amy, Amy, _Amy_ …" he almost sang, his voice growing higher in pitch with each 'Amy,' while Holmes kept his face carefully void of any emotion. He gave him an odd little smile, "Such a spoil-sport, my little sister. Always ruining my fun, always running off to tell on me to mummy and daddy…" he released a large sigh, "All I was doing was having a bit of fun, it's not my fault if she didn't like to play rough…"

Holmes barely suppressed the urge to glare at him, knowing perfectly well that Amelia had been stuffed inside closets and ducked under water, even pushed out of a tree at one point, all in the name of 'fun,' until Moriarty had grown bored of her. But despite that, Amelia still insisted that she had loved her childhood, while her brother might have tormented her at times, she had said that they had rare moments of actually being like normal siblings, times when they had gotten along and played together without Amelia ended up in tears. However, Holmes would argue that the good times had been outweighed by the bad, Amelia was still terrified of water, she refused to even so much as go near the water's edge when they went to the seaside and when they required the need to travel via a boat, she spent almost all of her time hiding away inside the cabin, even if she did end up getting horribly seasick as a result. Her fear of large bodies of water was easily traced back to Moriarty.

"Never mind that," Moriarty went on, suddenly breaking into a wicked smile, flashing it at Holmes, "You know, I'd almost be offended if you didn't take precautions…" he pattered his trouser pockets briefly, before reaching up to reach into his breast pocket of his blazer, fishing a small pistol out as he spoke, "Obviously I've returned the courtesy".

He held the pistol up for Holmes to see and glanced at it, cocking it and twirling it around his finger through the trigger guard, seeming not to care in the slightest bit that it could easily go off at any second, Holmes barely resisting the urge to take a step away from him. He stopped spinning it and casually began wondering around the room, the pistol still in his hand as he looked around vaguely.

"I like your rooms," he said casually, while Holmes watched his every move intently, "They smell so…" he gestured with his free hand, looking thoughtful as he tried to come up with a way to describe it, "…manly," he deepened his voice slightly, coming to stand closer to Holmes, "But…with a hint of vanilla…" he smirked at Holmes, a knowing glimmer in his eyes, "Little Amy always did love her perfume and soaps. I see she's managed to make a few _feminine_ touches…" his eyes flickered over to the vase of brilliant red roses on the mantel piece, lingering a little too long for comfort on the photograph of William and Agatha sitting beside the crystal vase for Holmes's comfort.

Holmes narrowed his eyes at the mention of Amelia and the lingering gaze on the picture of his children, gripping the handle of his own gun tighter in his pocket, "I'm sure you've acquitted yourself with them before now," he said coolly, wondering now if he ought to have considered packing away some of the more sentimental items Amelia had put up on display around the room, the photograph from their wedding day and the one of the twins, sitting proudly and in full view on the mantelpiece.

Moriarty shrugged very lightly, pulling his gaze off the picture, "Well, you are always away on your little adventures for The Strand," he suddenly looked mock curious, "Tell me: does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose…" he pulled a mock thoughtful expression, lifting his fingers up beneath his chin, while he brought the barrel of the gun just above his chin, lightly resting against his skin, "…during your deductions?" he lowered his hands and the gun from his face, wondering over towards the fireplace.

"I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my and Amelia's absence," he told him sharply, turning smoothly around to keep Moriarty in sight, unable to hold back the angry glare at crossed his face as Moriarty reached out to pluck the photograph of the twins up from the mantle.

"I know you are," Moriarty remarked calmly, his eyes fixed on the picture, "By the way, you have a surprisingly comfortable bed, though I imagine that's more Amelia's doing then yours," he smirked and looked over to Holmes, his smile only widening at the barely concealed anger in his eyes, Holmes unable to hold himself back from twitching slightly, only just resisting the urge to grab the picture off him, "What an adorable picture," he said with a taunting smile, tapping his fingers against the silver, oval frame, though his gaze didn't leave Holmes's face, "Little Willy and Aggie…you must be such a proud daddy".

"I suggest you return it to its proper place," Holmes advised him, giving him a tight lipped smile that looked more painful than anything, "I assure you, Amelia _will_ murder you if any harm should come to it, or the frame. It was a wedding present".

"Yes, funny about that," he sat the picture back down on the mantelpiece, before turning his eyes onto the second picture, this one featuring Amelia in the wedding gown she had worn during her wedding to Holmes, delicate flowers scattered across the fabric that draped elegantly down the skirt with a long veil trailing down over her shoulders, a delicate tiara on her head, standing behind a chair with one hand resting on Holmes's shoulder, dressed in a morning coat, "I never did get my invitation, I suppose it must have got lost in the mail…oh, well…" he trailed with a mock sigh, casting Holmes a glance over his shoulder, but Holmes refused to react. Moriarty ran his finger down the edge of the mantelpiece and looked at the faint traces of dust on his finger, "Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?"

"Yes," Holmes said with a hint of annoyance, watching as Moriarty suddenly opened his mouth and stuck his dust covered finger onto his tongue, licking the dust. His mouth slipped open very slightly in faint disgust, before he quickly disguised the emotion.

He removed his finger from his mouth, looking almost disappointedly at it, "Doesn't taste the same, though," he commented softly, "You want your skin fresh…" he waved his hand around, coming up with the right word, speaking almost as though it was supposed to be a fine wine, "…just a little crispy…"

Holmes sighed, growing tired of the way that it felt as though Moriarty was simply toying with him, trying to do everything possible to annoy or unnerve, "Won't you sit down?" he suggested, holding his hand out towards Watson's armchair, wanting to try and regain some resemblance of control over this whole meeting.

"That's all people really are, you know," he continued as though he hadn't spoken at all, sniffing as he waved his free hand around, glancing back over to Holmes, "Dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere…" he pulled a face and stuck his tongue out, waggling it around, as though trying to get rid of the taste of the dust, "In every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people".

"Fascinating, I'm sure," Holmes said dryly, lifting one eyebrow, "Won't you sit…" he tried to gesture towards the armchair again, when Moriarty cut him off.

"People, people, people," he spoke over the top of him, staring down the barrel of his pistol, lifting it slowly closer up towards his eyes, "Can't keep anything shiny," he shook his head slightly and blew on the end of the gun three times, while Holmes frowned, watching him closely. He peered down the barrel, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, "Do you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?"

He suddenly turned the gun on Holmes and Holmes, without blinking, whipped out his gun, aiming it directly at Moriarty's head. Silence filled the room as they stood there, staring down each other with their guns aimed and their fingers on the triggers, just waiting, almost daring the other to try and shoot…and then, slowly, almost in unison they pulled the guns away, pointing the muzzle up towards the ceiling, not breaking eye contact until Holmes tossed his gun carelessly over on the desk littered with papers and books off to the side of the room, looking back to Moriarty, who kept his pistol at his side.

"Exactly," Moriarty nodded calmly, "Let's stop playing. We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"

Holmes walked closer to him, "Sit down," he told him, his voice soft.

"Why? What do you want?"

"You chose to come here".

"Not true," he shook his head as Holmes came to a stop directly in front of him, towering over him, "You know that's not true," he stared back into Holmes's eyes and Holmes was once again struck by just how similar his eyes were to Amelia's, but they were missing the spark that Amelia had in hers that made them warm, rather than dark and empty. A moment passed before he asked, "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"The truth," Holmes replied quietly, needing to know.

He nodded slowly in understanding, "That," he said, edging around Holmes as he suddenly scrunched up his face in distaste, leaning slightly closer to Holmes's face, "Truth's boring," he walked passed him as Holmes turned around to watch him cross the room, his pace slow and steady, "You didn't expect _me_ to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you?" he broke into a mocking little smirk, glancing back over his shoulder to him, "Oh, Amy, what a shock that must have been to her. And poor old Sir Eustace," he lost his smirk, turning around to face Holmes properly, his tone growing flat and void of any emotion, "He got what was coming to him".

Holmes watched him closely, his eyes narrowing at the mention of Amelia and the pleasure he seemed to take at how upset she had been by the news of her brother still being alive, but he pushed the emotions away easily enough, focusing on the facts, "But you couldn't have killed him," he remarked.

"Oh, so what? Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don't care about Sir Eustace, _or_ the Bride or _any_ of it. There's only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting".

He stared at him and his eyebrows lifted slightly, giving him a knowing look, "I know what you're doing," he whispered intensely, almost smiling.

Suddenly, the whole room began to shake and Holmes frowned, squeezing his eyes shut sharply as the table with the crystal decanter and glasses began to rattle faintly, almost as though the faint tremble of an earthquake had just gone through the flat, but Moriarty didn't seem to notice anything and as Holmes gave his head a sharp shake, the quaking stilled.

"The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off," Moriarty was saying as though nothing had happened, staring back at Holmes as he opened his eyes, the gun up by Moriarty's chin, "And then she came back to life," he shrugged very slightly, giving Holmes a disbelieving, mocking look as he pulled the gun further away from his face, "Impossible…but she did it, and you need to know how. _How_ …?" he breathed the word, seemingly completely unaware of the shaking starting up again, making the glasses rattle once more, "…don't you? It's tearing your world apart not knowing".

The shaking continued and Holmes desperately tried to pretend as though it wasn't happening, focusing on Moriarty, just trying to ignore the rattle of glass against glass or the way that he could feel a vibration running through the floorboards beneath the rug he was standing on. He knew what Moriarty was doing and he couldn't allow it.

"You're trying to stop me…" he hissed out, drawing in a deep, long breath through his nose and closing his eyes, "…to distract me, derail me," he opened his eyes again, shaking his head lightly as the shaking began to settle once more.

"Because doesn't this remind you of another case?" Moriarty asked him, pretending to look thoughtful as Holmes briefly closed his eyes, trying to keep focused, "Hasn't this all happened before? There's nothing new under the sun," he stared at Holmes, who closed his eyes again and grimaced, trying to stay focused, "What was it?" he went on, "What was it? What was that case? Huh? Do you remember?"

Holmes kept his eyes firmly closed and lifted his hands up to his face, clasping them together and dragging them down his face, just over his lips.

"It's on the tip of my tongue," he whispered, mock thoughtful, just as the shaking started up again, "It's on the tip of my tongue…"

"It's on the tip of my tongue," Holmes murmured just as softly, lowering his hands from his face, opening his eyes, but he wasn't looking at Moriarty, gazing down at the floor. The rattling and shaking was still going and he struggled to ignore it, to push the distraction away, when it finally settled down and he let his eyes snap open.

Moriarty was still staring at him, his eyes intent, "It's on the tip…" he stuck his tongue out and lifted his gun up to his mouth, resting the muzzle of it against his tongue, sinking down lower without changing his position or breaking eye contact, "…of my tongue," he whispered from around the gun, slurring his speech slightly.

The shaking returned with a jarring clink of glasses and Holmes instantly closed his eyes, grimacing as the entire room seemed to shift and rattle around him with a sickening lunch of his stomach, as though he had gone over a hill. He took a sharp breath in through his nose again, practically willing the shaking to stop before snapping his eyes open again.

"For the sake of Mrs Hudson's wallpaper," he spoke quickly, but calmly, "I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be _dead_ ," he finished the last word with a breathless gasp, frowning slightly, but Moriarty simply gabbled something incoherently from around the gun, almost seeming to be mocking him. He briefly closed his eyes, releasing another breath, "I'm sorry?"

Moriarty removed the gun from his mouth, keeping it up close beside his face, his finger still on the trigger, "Dead…" he said, pausing for a long moment as his voice dropped into a whisper, "…is the new sexy".

Holmes's mouth slipped open in shock, staring at him as the rattling returned, seeming to be growing worse and more frequent, making the entire flat around him shake. He barely had a chance to comprehend what was happening as Moriarty suddenly opened his mouth wide and aimed the barrel of his gun directly in his mouth, firing it. He fell backwards with the loud bang that sounded through the room, blood splattering in the air. Unable to move as the shaking abruptly stopped, Holmes remained gaping at the place Moriarty had been standing, numbed with shock…when Moriarty suddenly jumped back onto his feet, giving himself a sharp shake. The only indication that anything had just happened was the fine droplets of blood on his face.

"Well…" Moriarty put on a posh accent, looking completely calm, "I'll tell you what: _that_ rather blows the cobwebs away".

Holmes's eyes widened in disbelief and a hint of fear, "How can you be alive?"

"How do I look, huh?" he asked instead, putting on a mock concerned look as he began to turn around on the spot, revealing a gaping, bloody hole at the back of his head, "Huh?" he began to turned back around to face Holmes, who could only gape at him, unable to believe what he was witnessing, let alone make sense of it, "You can be honest," he continued as he looked at Holmes, sounding almost anxious, "Is it noticeable?"

"You blew your own brains out," Holmes breathed, looking utterly stunned, "How could you survive?"

Moriarty didn't seem to hear him, busy reaching up to gesture to his head, looking thoughtfully off to the side, "Well, maybe I could back-comb…" he remarked absently.

"I saw you die," he said firmly, before narrowing his eyes, "Why aren't you dead?"

He finally looked back over to him, his eyes darkening, "Because it's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock," he took a step closer to Holmes, lowering his voice to a whisper, "Of all people, you should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall," he shook his head and began to spread his arms out on either side of himself, looking positively manic as the rattling returned, tinkling and smashing glassware around the room, "It's the _landing_ ".

No sooner had the word left Moriarty's mouth before Holmes found himself stumbling backwards against the shaking and jolting of the room, struggling to keep his balance as things began falling off shelves around the room. He gritted his teeth as he found himself falling backwards, right into his armchair, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, feeling himself falling further and further into inky blackness…

"We've landed, sir," a man's voice broke through, and the feeling of a large hand grabbing his shoulder and shaking him jolted him harshly, "We've landed".

Slowly, his eyes began to open…but he certainly wasn't in Baker Street anymore. In fact, he wasn't even in the ninetieth century. No, he was sitting in the soft, leather seat of the private airplane he had been going to his exile on after saying his goodbye's to Amelia Wilson and John Watson, back in the year 2014.

 _ **And so Sherlock is finally waking up again, though not for very long. I tried to make it clear in this chapter that the dream is starting to fall apart, that dream logic is starting to make less sense. I mean, in our dreams we can travel from place to place without much logic or sense to it, which is why Holmes found himself back in London with Mycroft when he should have still been walking down the stairs of the manor house and why he noticed it, because reality is starting to bleed through. It's also why I included that little memory about the painting, it's not supposed to make a lot of sense to Holmes, hence why I didn't include much detail and mostly stuck to just the conversation of the memory.**_

 _ **Next chapter, how will Amelia react to Sherlock's drug use? What does this mean for Sherlock's little 'I love you' confession before he got on the plane? And John's in denial. Tell me what you thought, I apologise for not posting this sooner, I got sucked into playing the latest Sims 4 game. Please review :)**_

 _ **Guest review:**_

 _ **Sam Fraser (chapter 4):**_ _ **Welcome to my Sherlock story, or at least welcome to it for the first time reviewing it. I'm certainly looking forward to writing her reaction when she learns about who truly is behind all the 'Bride's' murders. She has such a strong commitment and support for the whole Suffragette movement, it's going to come as a terrible blow and shock to her.**_

 _ **It possibly was a little sexist, though I'm don't believe that was ever the message that was intended to be given, in fact I feel that it was the opposite. I do, however, think it was poorly delivered. Personally, I thought it was a clever idea and I rather liked the idea of a group of women banding together in order to get revenge back on men who had wronged them in the past, I just think the delivery at the end there could have been done better without the hoods. Why not have them step out of the shadows? Both as a dramatic reveal and a symbolic message. I feel like that would have been better and less KKK-like, as you pointed out.**_


	7. Chapter 7 Rough Landing

_**Rough Landing**_

The cool breeze brushed against Amelia's exposed neck as she stood on the edge of the tarmac by the parked town cars they had arrived in, watching as the plane carrying Sherlock begin to make it's smooth decent back down to Earth, having barely spent five minutes in the air before being called back. She almost wished she had thought to wear a scarf, she had remembered thinking that the clouds had looked a little ominous, threatening rain later on in the day, but she hadn't been able to quite stomach the idea of wearing one. It reminded her to much of Sherlock.

John and Mary stood next to each other on the right side of her, watching the plane coming down with troubled expressions on their faces, and Amelia knew that she likely looked no better than them, be it with still red eyes from her crying, of course. The relief that Sherlock was going to be coming back from his very short lived exile almost completely overrode the turbulent feelings of fear and confusion that had been crashing over her since her brother's little 'Miss me?' message had been released. She didn't understand how it was even possible for James, even beyond the grave, to have been able to pull something like this one off, because there was no doubt in her mind that her brother was dead. She might not have seen his body and witnessed his suicide, but she knew he had to be gone, though clearly not before he arranged for someone else to carry on his final game. It made her frightened to think of just what else he might have planned out before his death, what other little games he may have set into motion for them to have to deal with.

Amelia clenched her fists together with anger, her painted red nails digging into the flesh of her palms at the thought of all the pain and destruction he had already caused, only for it to seemingly be still haunting them to this day, even though he wasn't here to enjoy watching the fireworks unfold for himself. She wished, not for the first time, that he was still alive so that she could scream at him for everything he had done, but logically she was more than aware of the fact that anything she said or did to James, would never have had any impact upon him. She could have shot his kneecaps out or held a gun to his head, and he still would have just laughed at her…though, such forms of violence truly weren't her style, so she supposed it probably would have been amusing to him to see just what out of character lengths she had been driven to by him.

She exhaled a short breath of air though her red lips, closing her eyes briefly to try and gather some form of composer. James was _dead_ , he had to be, but now they had to focus on figuring out exactly what it was he had set into motion before his death, and she was going to need to keep her anger and bitterness towards her brother in check if she had any hope of helping Sherlock, when they did begin their investigation, as she had no doubt he would be more then eager to start right away, never mind the fact that he had only just escaped the clutches of his impending death. Again.

The thought of Sherlock helped her to calm herself down and, without meaning to, her mind went back to his admission to her before boarding the plane. He loved her. It was completely the wrong time to even be thinking about it, but she couldn't help the giddy, hot sensation that spread through her chest at the thought. Never had she ever imagined that he might actually say those words to any one, let alone her, but he had and she knew that he would never have said something like that unless it was completely true. Oh, honestly, she couldn't help thinking sharply to herself, inwardly rolling her eyes. She sounded like a school girl, not a thirty five, almost thirty six year old woman! She needed to seriously get control over her emotions before she made a total fool of herself, one second she was crying, the next furious, only to end up giddy and fighting back the desire to grin like a lovesick idiot. This really was turning out to be a day of emotional rollercoaster's.

The aircraft finally touched down on the runway, landing smoothly despite the strong winds. They stood back and watched, waiting impatiently as the pilot brought the plane over closer to where they were standing, while the ground crew quickly moved towards the plane, two of the men pushing the large set of steps over towards the planes door, just before one of the flight attendants swung it open. Amelia practically jogged over to the stairs with her heels clicking loudly and slowing her pace slightly, though Mycroft with his longer legs was only just slightly ahead of her, climbing the steps up towards the door, John and Mary trailing right behind them.

"Well, somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine," Mycroft called pleasantly, having to duck in order to get through the low door, "Although adequate given your levels of OCD".

"Personally, I found it long enough," Amelia remarked with a frown crossing her face, giving Mycroft a quick glance as she stepped over the threshold of the door, forced to bow her head in order to avoid knocking it. Still, the moment she had straightened herself and stepped beside Mycroft in the narrow front section of the plane, her eyes came to rest on Sherlock, unable to stop the relieved, delighted smile that crossed her face at the sight of him. She hardly even noticed the fact that he looked very glassy eyed and seemed slightly slouched in his seat, simply too pleased to see him after she had been so certain she would never see him again.

Sadly, Sherlock didn't seem quite so pleased, "I have to go back!" he insisted, breathing rather heavily, as though he had just finished running.

Amelia's smile slipped, replaced with a look of utter confusion, while Mycroft frowned at his brother, "What?" he asked him, while they moved closer to his seat, John and Mary joining them with matching expressions of puzzlement.

"I was…I was nearly there!" he exclaimed, not looking at them as he held his hands up in front of him, "I nearly had it!"

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Amelia frowned deeply, concern quickly starting to replace any relief or happiness she might have felt upon seeing him. She even moved to crouch on the floor beside his chair, balancing carefully on her heels as she eyed his face. There was something wrong with his eyes, they looked unfocused and…his pupils were far to dilated. He almost looked…high, the thought immediately taking her breath away and her heart to sink. No, it wasn't possible, he couldn't be, he'd been locked up for days, it wasn't possible for him to get his hands on any drugs, but yet…his eyes told a different story.

"Go back where?" John cut in, shaking his head at Sherlock's confused babble, while Amelia could only stare at Sherlock's face, struggling against the urge to either burst into tears or slap him. John almost looked amused, glancing at Mycroft beside him, "You didn't get very far".

"Ricoletti and his abominable wife!" Sherlock snapped, rubbing his eyes briefly before dropping his hands to glare up at John, "Don't you understand?"

"No, of course we don't," Mary told him calmly, though she was frowning at him, "You're not making any sense, Sherlock".

"It was a case…" Amelia said slowly, eyeing Sherlock as his head snapped around to her as she spoke, his expression looking almost hopeful. She used the armrest of his seat to push herself up from her crouch, tugging her black dress as she straightened, not taking her eyes off Sherlock's far to large ones, "A very, very old case made famous over a hundred years ago," she continued, but her voice was carefully controlled of emotion, lest she start shouting at Sherlock, as she felt the urge to do so, "It was all the more famous for the fact that it was never solved. I remember reading about it in a book about unsolved murder mysterious".

"Yes, and it's been lodged in my hard drive," Sherlock nodded quickly, looking oddly relieved that Amelia seemed to know about it, his gaze growing distant as he looked away from her, his eyes settling on the seat directly ahead of him, "She seemed to be dead but then she came back".

"What, like Moriarty?" John questioned, folding his arms across his chest as he eyed Sherlock curiously.

"Shot herself in the head, _exactly_ like Moriarty".

Mary shook her head at him, "But you've only just been told," she said to him, moving around to sit down in the seat before him, facing him, "We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country".

"Yes?" he said quickly, releasing his seatbelt, "So? It's been five minutes since Mycroft called," he glanced over to Mycroft, though he didn't seem to be able to focus on him, his eyes flickering around too much, "What progress have you made? What have you been doing?"

John scoffed, lifting an eyebrow, "More to the point, what have _you_ been doing?"

"Oh, I have a vague idea…" Amelia muttered to herself, turning away from Sherlock and the rest of them, glaring down at the floor as she clenched her hands together in fists. She was so angry with Sherlock she could slap him right now and not feel the slightest bit bad about it, but worst of all, she was disappointed. Disappointed for him, that he had spent so many years sober only to throw it all away now, disappointed to see him like this, unable to even focus on any of them, and disappointed that she hadn't expected that he would find a way to get his hands on something, just to escape from it all. It's what she would have done, in his shoes, and she wasn't even an addict.

No one seemed to hear her, however, for which she almost felt grateful, all focused on Sherlock as he replied to John's question, his tone holding a hint of annoyance, "I've been in my Mind Palace, of course…"

"Of course," John rolled his eyes, sounding sarcastic.

"Running an experiment," he continued over the top of him, his eyes fixed on the floor, "How would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895?"

"Oh, Sherlock…" Mycroft breathed, suddenly seeming to have caught on to what Amelia had. He stared at his brother for a moment, his face full of disappointment and anger, before he turned away from him.

"Now you see," Amelia turned back towards them, meeting Mycroft's eyes, her voice soft. She couldn't even look at Sherlock right now, afraid that if she did she would either hit him or just start sobbing out of sheer frustration, hating seeing the glassy, unfocused look in his eyes or the way he seemed to be trying to pretend as though he had just taken a trip into his own Mind Palace, rather than the reality. She swallowed hard as John and Mary glanced at her in confusion and concern, but she maintained eye contact with Mycroft, his expression grave and sad.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed warily, sighing heavily as he took a seat on one of seats on the other side of the aisle, lowering his chin to rest on top of his umbrella, his eyes growing distant, "Yes, I do, indeed".

Only Sherlock seemed to be completely oblivious to what was going on, his unfocused, glazed over eyes still fixed on the floor, "I had all the details perfect," he murmured, obviously still trying to cling to his lie, while Amelia closed her eyes, shaking her head, struggling against the urge to simply call him out on it all right then and there. He suddenly flailed his hands in the air, while Mary took his phone sitting on the shelf beside his seat, looking at the screen, "I was there, all of it, everything! I was immersed".

"Of course you were," Mycroft commented lightly, lifting his head from his umbrella, staring ahead of him. Amelia could almost feel the disappointment rolling off him in waves, somehow worse than her own.

"You've been reading John's blog," Marry smiled faintly, looking at Sherlock's phone, "The story of how you three met," she glanced up to Sherlock, her smile widening before her eyes flickered over to John and Amelia, but as she looked at Amelia, her smile vanished, taken aback by the barely concealed anger in her dark eyes.

"Helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes," Sherlock nodded absently, drawing in a long, slow breathe as he spoke, John's eyebrows rising in surprise, "I'm so much cleverer".

Amelia crossed her arms across her chest, fixing him with a sharp, angry look, "Stop it," she said sharply, taking a step closer to his seat, until she was almost looming over him, but he simply looked up at her, those glazed over eyes moving to erratically around her face to properly focus, "Sherlock, enough," she reached out, hesitating briefly before touching his arm, trying to hold his gaze, even though it was near impossible in his state, "Just tell the truth, Sherlock, please. This lying is utterly useless".

John blinked, giving her a startled look, "Amelia, he can do this," he tried telling her, frowning slightly at her. He didn't understand why she kept looking at him like that, almost as though she was pitying him, not when she knew better than him what Sherlock was capable of when he used his Mind Palace, she'd even tried explaining it to _him_ , "You know he can, we've both seen it, the Mind Palace. It's like a whole world in his head".

"Yes, and I need to go back there," Sherlock added quickly, sounding quite frustrated as he leant back in his seat and lifted his hands up towards his head, before letting them fall back down on the armrests of his seat with a clatter of flesh meeting leather.

"Oh, John," Amelia sighed sadly, shaking her head at him, ignoring Sherlock, "I don't know if it's very sweet or horribly naive of you to not see what is truly happening here. Perhaps it's both; I certainly wish I could view it like you".

"The Mind Palace is a memory technique," Mycroft spoke up, while John stared at Amelia, looking even more shocked by her words. Sherlock sighed in annoyance, rolling his head sideways onto his shoulder, looking more like a sulking child, "Myself and Amelia know what it can do, and we know what it most certainly cannot," he looked directly up at John as he finished.

Sherlock lifted his head up, closing his eyes tightly as he brought his hand up to rest over his nose, "Maybe…" he began coolly, lowing his hand and opening his eyes, his tone growing slightly sarcastic, "There are one or two things that I know that you two don't," he looked up to them, his eyes managing to actually concentrate better as he glanced at Amelia, before settling on Mycroft.

"Oh, there are," Mycroft replied quietly, looking back pointedly to him, until Sherlock looked away first, gazing out the window beside him, bringing his thumb up to his mouth, chewing absently on it. Amelia sighed, reaching up to rub her forehead as silence fell over the cabin, until he asked, "Did you make a list?"

Sherlock refused to look back to him, still chewing on his thumb. Amelia narrowed her eyes and grabbed his shoulder, making him blink and look back to her in mild surprise, meeting her cold eyes with a look of childish stubbornness. He was practically daring her to do something to make him talk, she could read it in his eyes that he would try dragging this on for as long as possible, until someone ended up cracking and likely threw a punch at him. But Amelia refused to allow that to happen, sure she might have felt the urge to slap him at first, but the emotion had passed and she no longer wanted to hit him, she wanted to _help_ him. She hated seeing him like this, it almost physically pained her, because she knew it wasn't Sherlock, but rather the drugs he had injected or swallowed, but right now…they were one in the same and sadly, the drugs were a lot more powerful then Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please," she said gently, her face softening, moving herself around so that she was almost blocking everyone out, trying to give him the illusion that it was just the two of them right now, because she knew that there only hope she had of getting him to comply with her was if he didn't feel watched. She slowly reached up with her other hand not on his shoulder, bringing it up to cup his cheek, her thumb lightly sweeping across his sharp cheek bone, while she moved the hand on his shoulder further up to his neck, tangling in the curls at the base of his neck, "Please, we need to know, you know we do," she looked directly into his eyes, pleading with him to work with her, to stop fighting, "Just tell us…did you make a list? It's for your own good; we just need to know everything you've taken…"

He stared back at her, not saying a word, in fact he barely even seemed to be aware of anything she had said, but Amelia knew differently. She could see the very slight hint of lucidness flicker in his glassy eyes; feel the way that he lent into her touch or the way that his erratic pulse seemed to increase and steady very slightly at her contact. Even high out of his mind, Sherlock was still listening to her, even if it was only a little bit, still affected by her touch, but that didn't mean that he wasn't going to be painful, though she thought it was perhaps less to do with wanting to rebel against her, then rebelling against Mycroft's presence. She needed to change tactics then, try and appeal to Sherlock's more competitive side, make him want to show up his brother. She tried very, very hard not to think about just how easy it was for her to manipulate Sherlock right now, feeling uncomfortable with having to even do it, but this was Sherlock's life on the line. She needed to get that list.

"Come on, Holmes," she tried to lighten her tone slightly, knowing she was close, making it sound more bright and teasing, giving him a little smirk, "Just imagine Mycroft's face if you give me the list instead of him. After all, we all know you like me best," she winked playfully at him, giving one of his curls a little tug, making his eyes flicker closed, against his will.

"No, it can't be that," John said from behind Amelia, and she very nearly turned around to snap at him to shut up, but she kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock's, her cheeky smile in place. Sherlock liked her cheeky smile, she knew he did, even if he would likely lie and scoff at her if she pointed it out, just like she knew he liked her heels and red lipstick, no matter how much he liked to pretend to moan and complain about how impractical her dress sense was, "He goes into a sort of trance," John was still saying, seeming quite convinced that Sherlock wasn't high, "I've seen him do it…"

John trailed off as Sherlock reached into his breast pocket of his blazer, lowering his gaze from Amelia's as a regretful expression crossed his face, pulling a folded up piece of paper out of his pocket. Amelia lost her smile, her expression growing grim and sad as she dropped her hands from his neck and cheek, Sherlock refusing to look up at her, looking for the first time truly ashamed of himself as she took the paper from his fingertips, letting her own lightly brush against his in a silent thank you. She swallowed hard as she straightened and turned around to face the others, feeling her heart rate pickup as she realised how long the paper was in her hands, folded up messily into one half.

"If you still refuse to believe the truth before your eyes, John," she said grimly, holding the paper out to him, meeting his eyes firmly, "Then take this and see for yourself".

John slowly reached out to take the paper from her, unfolding it as Amelia moved around to stand next to Sherlock's chair, rather than directly in front of it, placing her hand on top of the chair as Sherlock still refused to look at any of them. Amelia could feel her disappointment growing worse, wishing she could just grab Sherlock and shake him for being so foolish, but she couldn't because…she understood why he had done it, she could empathise with him on a certain level, but that didn't mean she accepted it or was okay with it. John began looking at the words scrawled down the paper, his eyes widening in shock before he quickly looked back over to Sherlock, staring at him in disbelief.

Mycroft was looking away from them, clearly not wishing to see what he had already had to spend half of his life witnessing, time and time again. Since Amelia and John had entered Sherlock's life, his relapses had completely stopped, no longer had he come to fear the phone ringing in the early hours of the morning or witness his little brother become further consumed by his addition until he was barely able to even lift his head up from whatever disgusting, stained mattresses he had collapsed on. They had been good for him, John and Amelia, they had provided Sherlock with a support system that he had never had before, allowing him the ability to be able to live the past five years without a single relapse, but that was over now. He had to admit, he was rather surprised to learn that Sherlock had confided in Amelia about the list, but then he supposed it wasn't completely shocking. His little brother did seem terribly taken by Amelia; he would go so far as to say it was even love, if such an emotion could be applied to his brother.

"We have an agreement, my brother and I," he began to explain for John and Mary's benefit, "Ever since that day".

Mycroft still refused to look at Sherlock as he spoke, but Amelia already knew, or at least she knew the vague memories that Sherlock had shared with her. He had began taking drugs as a teenager, starting off small at only fifteen, weed and cigarettes, before progressing onto the harder, more serious stuff by the time he was seventeen. He'd barely managed to make it through university without a day that he wasn't high or a night were he didn't spend it curled up in some seedy drug den, until one day Sherlock took things too far and almost died. He'd been so bad that he had even called Mycroft to come help him, and Mycroft had spent the entire night right beside him. From that day forward, until Sherlock got himself cleaned up mere weeks before first meeting herself and John, Sherlock would make a list. It had horrified Amelia to hear the story, but he had insisted that one day it may be important that she knew, should anything happen and now it had.

"Whenever I find him…" Mycroft continued, Sherlock closing his eyes and swallowing hard. Amelia reached out to place a hand on his arm, "Whatever back alley or doss house, there will always be a list," he sat back into his seat, looking grim.

John moved to sit down in the seat across from Mycroft's, holding the paper up in front of him, "He couldn't have taken all of this in the last five minutes," he said, shaking his head as he lowered his hand holding the list down onto his knee.

Mycroft scoffed slightly, glancing over to Sherlock, "He was high before he got on the plane".

"No," Sherlock said firmly, his eyes snapping up to glare across the aisle to his brother, "I wasn't 'high'," he rolled his eyes at the word, though his eyes looked oddly focused and lucid.

"Sherlock..." Amelia sighed, frowning at him as he pulled his gaze up to meet hers, "John's right, you can't have taken a full list of drugs in five minutes and gone on your little trip into dreamland," she felt her heart sinking as she realised he had to have been high when he told her he loved her, almost feeling as though someone had kicked her in the chest, but she forced herself to remain composed, she'd deal with that crushing realisation later…away from others and the temptation to really punch Sherlock in the head.

"Amelia, I'm telling the truth. I may not have been entirely sober, but I wasn't high. There's a difference. Check the list, you'll find medication on there that is slow acting, therefore while I may have taken the drugs before arriving here, I wasn't completely high while speaking with you and I do have a very high tolerance for drugs".

Amelia eyed him closely, wanting to believe him and oddly enough, he seemed determined that she should understand that he hadn't been high when he had spoken to her outside the plane. He seemed almost completely lucid as he looked directly into eyes, openness and honesty in his still vaguely unfocused eyes, but she wasn't sure if she could truly trust him, or if he was merely deceiving her. She wanted to believe him, the fact that he had been still affected by drugs was hardly any better than if he had been completely off his face when he had spoken to her, when he had told her he was in love with her, but the look in his eyes. He almost looked desperate for her to believe him and that was very, very unlike Sherlock.

"Amelia…" he lowered his voice more, his expression growing more intently determined, "I was completely in control and aware of what I was doing. Everything I said…it was _entirely_ my own, not the drugs".

"He didn't seem high, Amelia," Mary said, making Amelia drag her eyes off Sherlock's to look at her. She almost looked sympathetic, grasping her slim white phone between her hands, her thumbs poised as she paused in her typing into the phone, having returned Sherlock's own phone back onto the shelf by his seat, but Mary's sympathy only made Amelia want to cringe. She was grateful for her kindness, even after everything that had happened between the two of them, but still Amelia wished that she could deal with this whole mess without an audience.

Mycroft looked directly at Sherlock, his expression grim, "No one deceives like an addict," he remarked, before Amelia had a chance to try and respond, Mary returning her attention back onto her phone.

"I'm not an addict," Sherlock sighed heavily, closing his eyes in exasperation. Amelia narrowed her eyes on him, looking forward to hearing how he tried to explain himself, "I'm a user. I alleviate boredom and occasionally heighten my thought processes".

"For God's sake!" John snapped angrily, staring at him in disbelief at what he was hearing, "This could _kill_ you! You could _die_!"

"Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality".

Amelia moved back around his chair, looking hard at him, "There's no such thing as 'controlled usage' in regards to drugs, Sherlock," she told him coldly, her voice shaking slightly with suppressed anger as he kept his eyes fixed firmly on a spot on the wall, refusing to look at her now. The only indication to the fact that he was listening to her was his jaw tensing and his left hand gripping the arm of his chair, making the leather squeak slightly, "You're an addict," she went on, her heart pounding with anger, "And an addict is and _always_ will be completely at the mercy of their addiction, you do _not_ control it. You simply learn to live with it and fight against it".

Silence settled over the cabin and Sherlock refused to respond, still determinedly refusing to so much as glance at her, but Amelia didn't care. She was beyond caring right now. He was an addict, pretending to have any sort of control of his addiction was so like him, because of course Sherlock Holmes couldn't possibly be human enough to be dependent upon a substance, just like anyone else with an addiction was. But he was, he always would be an addict, and Amelia was tired of listening to him trying to act as though he was somehow above such human vulnerabilities. If he could claim to be in love with her, he could damn well face the fact that he was human and that he was dangerously close to killing himself, and she would not allow him to simply shrug this off with his typical arrogance and disregard for his own health or safety. It was time he accepted that he was human with the same feelings and vulnerabilities as everyone else, not some sort of emotionless machine.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence. Amelia actually started slightly at his voice, glancing across to find him eyeing Mary with a small, puzzled frown as she typed rapidly on her phone. Oh, God, she wasn't posting about this to Twitter, was she?

"Emelia Ricoletti," Mary replied distractedly, still busy tapping away, "I'm looking her up".

"Ah," he nodded, while Amelia released a breath through her lips, trying to reign in the urge to smack Sherlock's head, like it would do any good, "I suppose we should," he continued, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed eye roll, "I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive…"

"Yep," she cut across him, not looking up from her phone, "That's where I'm looking," she smiled almost smugly down at her screen.

If it had been any other time, Amelia might have laughed at the sight of Mycroft's awkward, mildly embarrassed expression that crossed his face, toying absently with his umbrella. It was quite a rare thing to see Mycroft Holmes so thrown by something, Amelia only wished she could allow herself the moment to enjoy the sight, but right now she was still trying to focus on breathing, reminding herself that she couldn't allow her anger and frustration with Sherlock to control her right now. She needed to stay calm, later she could go home and smash every plate in the kitchen, if need be. Actually, now that she thought about it, why hadn't she done that before? It sounded like a fantastic means of dealing with frustration.

"What do you think of MI5's security?" he lifted an eyebrow as he looked across the aisle to Mary, forcing a polite smile. It looked rather painful, to Amelia's eyes.

"I _think_ …" Mary began, pulling her eyes off her phone to look back across to him, "…it would be a good idea," she smiled brightly, before returning her attention back to her phone, leaving Mycroft to watch her with a disgruntled frown, "Emelia Ricoletti," she announced after a moment, "Unsolved…" she glanced over to Mycroft, before jerking her head over to Sherlock, who had his head bowed and his palms flat over his ears, trying to block them out, "Like he says".

Sherlock lifted his head and held his hands out on either side of his head, his eyes squeezed shut, "Can you all just shut up for five minutes?" he demanded in annoyance, opening his eyes, "I have to go back. I was nearly there before you stepped on and started yapping away!" he let his arms fall back onto the armrest, turning his head to glare out of the window.

"Sherlock," Amelia glared at him, crossing her arms firmly across her chest, just to try and stop herself from grabbing the front of his shirt and shaking him. How dare he act as though it was them who were in the wrong, that they ought to be the ones to apologise to him for messing up his one-man party.

"'Yapping?'" John repeated in disbelief, his head snapping in Sherlock direction, looking outraged, "Sorry," he hissed through his teeth, managing to sound sarcastic, "Did we interrupt your session?"

Mycroft cleared his throat loudly and sat forward in his seat, "Sherlock, listen to me…" he started firmly.

"No," Sherlock instantly cut across him, leaning sideways in his seat, towards the window as he closed his eyes again. Amelia gripped the upper sleeve of her coat, her fingernails digging into the fabric as she looked angrily at Sherlock, he looked like a insolate child, "It only encourages you".

"I'm not angry with you…"

"Oh, that's a relief," he said sarcastically, pressing his hand to his forehead, "I was really worried…" he paused and opened his eyes suddenly, "No, hold on," he his eyes flickered over to his brother, "I really wasn't".

Mycroft stared back at him for a long moment, and for a moment Amelia could see the pain in Mycroft's eyes. She could understand that pain, that sense of helpless, because she was feeling that right now. Mycroft was many things and there were several things that she could come up with for why he wasn't always her favourite person in the world, but at the end of the day, Mycroft loved his brother and Amelia loved Sherlock. They had that in common, they would both do anything to try and help Sherlock, to protect him, out of that love. Regardless of any difference they may have, any disagreements or past history, they would always be in agreement when it came to wanting only the best for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please," Amelia tried softly, taking a step forward. Sherlock's eyes snapped over to her and even though he swiftly looked away from her again, she still caught the very hint of regret in his eyes. She reached out and touched his shoulder, his entire body tense, "Sherlock, no matter what, we only ever want the best for you, please just listen to that," she squeezed his shoulder, desperately wishing he would just look at her, but he kept his head turned towards the window, his head slightly ducked, his expression carefully controlled, "We're all here for you, we only want to try and help you".

Sherlock's eyes flickered closed briefly and he took a deep breath, while Amelia watched him carefully. He was ashamed, she could see it on his face, and she knew him well enough to know that this wasn't something he was proud of, no matter how much protesting or flippancy he used to mask his true feelings. He never would have wanted either herself or John to see him like this, barely grasping onto reality, ranting about ancient, unsolved cases that he insisted upon talking about as though they were really happening, as though he had truly been alive in 1895 to try and investigate the case.

Across the aisle, Mycroft looked down at the carpeted floor, "This was _my_ fault," he said quietly, looking truly regretful.

Sherlock looked back over to his brother, frowning slightly, "It was nothing to _do_ with you," he shook his head, his expression softening very slightly as his eyes flickered up to Amelia, "Or Amelia".

"A week in a prison cell," he sighed sadly, ignoring Sherlock's words, "I should have realised".

"Realised _what_?"

"That in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your own worse enemy".

Sherlock closed his eyes, tilting his head back as Amelia swallowed hard, realising with a start that Mycroft was right, "Oh, for God's sake," he muttered, covering his face with his right hand, turning towards the window. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he lifted his head from his hands, narrowing his eyes at John, "What did you say?" he asked softly.

John frowned over at him, looking confused as he glanced back up to Amelia, who was eyeing Sherlock with a concerned expression, "I didn't say anything," he said, turning back towards Sherlock.

"No, you did," he insisted, pointing his finger at him, his eyes still narrowed. Amelia could feel fear starting to rise in her chest, seeing some of his lucidity starting to fade from his eyes; they were losing him to the drugs again…, "You said 'Which is it today, morphine or cocaine?'"

Amelia closed her eyes, tightening her grip on Sherlock's shoulder before she forced herself to open them again. Sherlock couldn't even see that he was slipping back under again, but she could, she could see some of his usual spark disappearing from his eyes; feel the way that his body was relaxing under her hand. But she seemed to be the only one to have caught on, John looked confused, while Mycroft was frowning at his brother and Mary sat up slightly straighter, looking alarmed.

"Sherlock?" she called, giving his shoulder a little shake, seeing his eyes starting to flicker closed "Sherlock?"

"'Holmes,'" Sherlock murmured, right before his eyes rolled in his head and he slumped forward into Amelia, who just managed to catch him as he slipped unconscious, her eyes widening as she clutched him to her.

"Oh, Sherlock," she breathed, her heart pound furiously as she felt sick, while the others jumped up with cries of shock and alarm, "Fight this," she squeezed her eyes closed, hugging him tighter, his entire body limp in her arms, "Come back to me, Holmes".

 _ **Ah, it's been a while, hasn't it? But we got there in the end. Now, I must say that I honestly can't understand how Sherlock could have possibly have taken a cocktail of drugs, enough to spark a shocked reaction from John, and still be walking around and talking properly. My only way of being able to make sense of how that was even possible was if most of what Sherlock took was slow acting, I don't care what Mycroft said about an addict being good at deceiving people, if you take that many drugs to get yourself into a state like Sherlock did, it's going to show. I do have to say that I find the whole thing with Sherlock being high and almost dying, and yet not having any side effects by the time he finally wakes up from the dream, to be a little farfetched. I mean, he's an addict, surely after relapsing like that; there would have been a great impact? But that's TV for you, not reality.**_

 _ **Tell me what you thought, please review :)**_

 _ **Guest reviews:**_

 _ **Guest (1):**_ _ **Aww, thank you so much, it always delights me to hear that people enjoy my stories. I'm doing very well currently, slightly stressed and rather busy, but well enough. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.**_

 _ **Guest (2):**_ _ **Aww, thank you so much, it was always very important to me in regards to Sherlock's character that he remained himself, I never wanted to try and change his character in order to make his romance with Amelia fit, hence why it took so long for the two of them to get together, rather than for them to end up together by the end of the first season. I really wanted to just work on their relationship together and try to make it as believable as possible. And it was the same for Amelia, she's got a history that's made it hard for her to feel ready to be in a romantic relationship, so she also really needed that time to build respect, friendship, and admiration towards Sherlock, which is what their relationship is based upon.**_

 _ **I love the Victorian special, when it first came out I just couldn't wait to start writing it and I had all these ideas in my head of how it would turn out (most of the ideas have been since scrapped), so it's so much fun for me to write a Victorian version of Holmes and Amelia being together, what their relationship may look like in that era, how their lives would have differed or remained the same. And as for the kids, that just kind of happened as I began writing, but it felt so right and natural for them in that setting, and I must say that I am rather fond of Agatha and William, and I feel terrible that they're not real.**_

 _ **That is a very good question and one that will be touched upon later, Sherlock might have been high when he created his Victorian life, but to him that only made it more vivid and real. Amelia may or may not make a remark similar to that, but that would be telling, wouldn't it? Aww, it's just made me so happy that you think so highly of Amelia, there is seriously nothing better than hearing that someone thinks that your OC fits into the series you're writing for, so thank you so much. And it's only made better by hearing that you think she would have fitted into the books, I personally have yet to get around to reading the books, but I did try to do some research into them so that I could bring some little references from them into the series, like Sherlock's interest in bees and Amelia's desire to one day possibly retire to the countryside, just like Holmes from the books would eventually do. Thank you again :)**_

 _ **Sam Fraser:**_ _ **I rather enjoyed the concept of the episode, too. I think it showed an interesting take on the Victorian age and attempting to show just how wronged so many women were back then, but utterly powerless to do anything about it. And I think it's so horrible that they had to go to the lengths that they did in the episode, just to receive the attention and respect they deserved, be it in very much the wrong way. As a feminist myself, I personally found the episode very enjoyable to watch, as I think it's important that we remember how things once where for women and the struggle they went through in order to get us to where we are today, so that we can keep fighting for further improvement.**_

 _ **Guest (3):**_ _ **I'm so happy to hear you like the story and here's that update :)**_


	8. Chapter 8 Colliding

_**Colliding**_

He was lying on something hard, his consciousness slipping slowly into focus and then away again, just as it seemed to have done for an age now, time utterly meaningless to his addled mind. He was vaguely aware of everything that had been going on around him, for instance he knew that he had, at some point in time, collapsed sideways onto the rug covered floor of Baker Street, he suspected that at some point the morning had dawned, due to the increased noise of babble and wheels outside, but for the most part Sherlock Holmes remained motionless where he was, caught between two worlds. Images continued to flash before his closed eyes, of a shiny city full of high towers and concrete, quite unlike the London of the Victorian age, but yet still with elements of the past scattered throughout it. He could picture easily Amelia's face in his mind, not his wife Amelia, but rather the other version of her, the Amelia who wore red lipstick and absurdly tall shoes.

He felt a connection now, between worlds, the London of 2014 and the London of 1895, but which was the dream and which was the reality? He was almost positive that the version of reality that was true was indeed 2014, but yet he still felt a connection for 1895. He had a family here, children and a wife, he was highly respected and regarded, beloved, even, by the world. What did he have in 2014? He had Amelia, of course, who he knew he loved just as much as this Victorian version of her, but their relationship seemed far more fragile in 2014, she was not his wife, nor the mother of his children, she had a history of loving and being with other men, other men far less damaged then himself, perhaps it would be easier, simpler, for her to simply be with someone else. The notion made something remarkably like jealousy wash over him. In 2014, he was also considered to be a killer, a murderer, sent away in disgrace for his crimes, in 1895 the only life he had, arguably taken, was Professor Moriarty. Was it not a better, simpler life in 1895? Sure, he had to deal with the ever more idiotic Scotland Yard, the misogynist and sexist attitudes of his peers, but he could not deny that he felt almost at peace in this world, so much so that he had even managed to forget about 2014.

Could he simply…not wake up, but rather remain here, in this world? It was so very tempting to do just that, to try and forget the truth, after all, in this world he was living the life that he may never have imagined himself to live, to be a father and a husband, but yet it was the life that he found strangely enjoyable. Amelia was here, as was John and everyone else that mattered, just different versions of them…in Mycroft's case, perhaps a better version. Could he truly give it all up, to go back to that other life? In this moment, caught between two worlds, he truly couldn't say.

"Holmes?" a voice called through his mind, pulling him slowly out, back into consciousness, "Morphine or cocaine? Which is it today?" Holmes almost wanted to cringe as he became more aware of everything, the numbness in his arm from sleeping on it flooding into his aching brain, the ringing of Watson's angry words bouncing around his skull, the strong scent of Amelia's vanilla perfume filling his nose, sweet and fresh. It was almost too much…He flinched as a loud bang of the living room door being slammed shut echoed through the room, "Answer me, damn it!"

Holmes jolted awake, drawing in a slow breath through his dry lips. Someone had placed a pillow beneath his head and a soft woollen blanket across his body, a sentimental gesture that could have only been Amelia's doing. He struggled to open his eyes, squinting them as everything looked vaguely out of focus and distorted from sleep and the remnants of the drugs, his eyes landing on the still open, empty syringe case lying on the floor a few inches from his outstretched hand. His head felt like someone was whacking him repeatedly over the back of the head with a pistol, while his mouth felt as dry as the desert and his eyes gritty. He had forgotten how horrendous one felt after a night of 'thinking'.

"Moriarty was here," he mumbled, struggling to resist against the pull to close his eyes again. He wished someone had thought to close the curtains a bit more, though he was thankfully somewhat shielded from the beams of what he estimated to be afternoon light by his position on the floor between the windows.

"Homes…" Amelia sighed heavily, and light footsteps approached him, bringing the hem of a dark blue skirt into his eye line. He peered up at her to find her frowning down at him, a touch of sadness and disappointment in her dark eyes behind her glasses, velvet trim running around the cuffs of her dress and a small pearl and gold dragonfly pin sticking into her dark blue, feathered hat perched neatly atop of her curled bun. The sapphire and diamond earrings hanging from her ears sparkled in the dim light, a birthday gift from him. She made no move to crouch down next to him, as she might have done any other time, telling him that he was far from forgiven, no matter what the pillow and blanket might say, "My brother is quite dead," she gave him a strange look, "As you ought to well know".

Holmes closed his eyes briefly and lifted his left arm up, waving it heavily in an attempt of a dismissive gesture, "I was on a jet," he told them tiredly, rolling slightly onto his back, opening his eyes to see Watson standing by the door with an angry scowl marring his features, stripping his leather gloves off.

"A what?" Watson asked blankly, glancing at Amelia, who merely shrugged and looked back down at her husband, looking just as confused.

He managed to lift his head, not caring if he was making no sense to either of them, "You were both there, and Mycroft," he tried to brace himself on his elbow, before pausing as it made his head throb painfully, but neither his wife, nor so called friend made any move to assistant him. Yes, Amelia was quite cross with him, wasn't she?

"I assure you, we were not," Amelia said calmly, but with a hint of a steely cold to her tone, standing above him with a carefully schooled expression, while Watson moved to stand before the fireplace, still frowning tightly. Holmes could practically sense the anger within her, but she would try everything within her power to rein it in while they had company, even if that company was Watson, she was too much of a Victorian lady to begin a domestic before anyone else but them, not like 2014 Amelia, who would have surely have shouted at him and possibly smacked him by now, "You have not left this room for days now, Holmes," she continued coldly, "Mrs Hudson herself attested to that when she called upon me this very morning, begging for me to return out of concern for your safety, as she was right to do, it would seem".

"Now, Holmes," Watson began sharply, eyeing him with a dark glare as Holmes sniffed slightly, clumsily running his hand through his slicked back hair, "Tell us, morphine or cocaine?"

He sighed heavily, "Cocaine," he replied lightly, as though it was of little concern as he began to pull himself up so that he was resting on his knees. He didn't miss the disapproving huff that Amelia gave as he delicately placed the syringe that had been left lying beneath his arm back into the small case, "A seven percent solution," he rose from the floor, holding the case and syringe out towards Watson, not quite daring to try and be flippant with Amelia right now, not when she was quite liable to make his life a living hell for the rest of their married life…or for however long he remained within this world, "Would you care to try it?"

"No," he said tightly, glaring down at the case held towards him, "But I would quite like to find every ounce of the stuff in your possession and pour it out the window. I'm sure Mrs Holmes would be more than happy to assist me".

"Indeed, Watson," Amelia nodded instantly, eyeing the case and syringe as though her very eyes could light it on fire…Holmes would very nearly claim that she could, with the sheer fierceness of her glare.

Holmes smirked very slightly, his eyes flickering between them, "I should be inclined to stop you," he paused for a moment on Amelia, "Even you, my dear Amelia".

"Oh, do try it, my _darling_ ," she smiled sweetly back at him, her dark eyes as cold as ice and smile practically dripping with poison. It was moments like these that reminded Holmes that he had married Professor James Moriarty's sister and that she could be just as ruthless as he, Amelia was, after all, a Moriarty by blood, and the Moriarty family did seem to be capable of whatever it was that they set their mind to, how else did an Irish, Catholic family manage to survive in England? Not that Amelia was a practicing Catholic or a believer, for that matter, but her parent's had been, and the English did tend to carry a great deal of weight upon ones history.

"And I should remind you, Holmes…" Watson said flatly, his expression grave, " _Quite_ forcibly…which of us is the solider and which of us a drug addict".

Holmes glanced at him as he placed the case down on the edge of the table, turning back towards them, "You're not a soldier," he reminded him, frowning slightly, "You are a _doctor_ ".

"No, an _Army_ doctor," he took a small step towards Holmes, while Amelia released a small sigh, absently adjusting her spectacles on the bridge of her nose, "Which means I could break every bone in your body, while naming them".

"My dear Watson, you are allowing emotion to cloud your judgment".

"Holmes," Amelia frowned at him, making his eyes flicker back over to her, "I do rather think that Watson and my own disproval towards this… _behaviour_ …" she shot another sharp glare towards the case on the desk at the word, "Is perfectly justified," she looked back to him, her lips set into a hard line, "You have little right to warn or scold either of us, when it is you that is in the wrong".

Holmes sighed heavily once more, looking briefly exasperated, "Amelia…"

"Never on a case," Watson suddenly cut across him, pointing back over towards the syringe, his eyes narrowed on Holmes as he looked across to his friend. He breathed in sharply, his face tight with anger, "You promised me. Never on a case".

"No," he shook his head, his voice soft and calm, smiling faintly, "I just said that in one of your stories. Nor did I ever make such an agreement with Amelia," he added, inclining his head towards Amelia as she watched him with a disappointed expression.

"I had not thought to need to," Amelia said quietly, "Nor did I wish for you to give up anything simply for my own sake, but I had hoped, Holmes, that with our children such… _habits_ would become merely a distant memory for you".

At that, Holmes did hesitate, his smile fading as he could no longer hold her gaze, feeling something oddly close to shame washing over him. It was such an alien emotion for him to feel, he could not recall ever having felt it before now, but Amelia's pointed reminder of their children had sparked it. It was true, as a father his behaviour had changed, he had found himself trying to ensure that their home was calm and peaceful, for the sake of the children, he had not stayed up to the early hours of the morning playing his violin, nor had he fired any weapons within their home since the children had been born. He had made steps to try and make their home more child friendly, of course there was spaces in which the children were forbidden to go without him or Amelia with them, but for the most part the worst trouble they could cause was minor. He had even stored his more dangerous chemicals under a lock since the twins had arrived, something he had never done previously. But his behaviour today, injecting dangerous chemicals and poisons into his own body…he had to confess, it was something that he should have long since put behind him. He may never have imagined himself to be a father, let alone a very good one, but he did know that this was not the type of father he wished to be. Perhaps that was a lesson even his other counterpart in 2014 ought to consider.

"Our children need you, Sherlock," Amelia said, pulling him from his thoughts, finding her watching him with an almost pitying look. Even Watson's anger seemed to have softened somewhat. She reached out with her white gloved covered hand to grasp his, "I need you, as my husband, as my friend, and as my partner. This behaviour must stop, I implore you".

Holmes stared back at her, feeling quite at a loss as to what to do or say. He was an addict, he always would be, but he was also aware of the difference between a sober addict and an addict who continued to dabble. For the sake of their family, he knew that logically he needed to be a sober addict, sending the children away to be with his parents was not enough, it didn't stop him from being a father, nor did it stop him from possibly killing himself and leaving them with only their mother. He had thought it was enough to send them away, that if they were not in the city that it was good enough and he could do as he wished without concerning himself about them, but that was not how fatherhood worked. Nor was it how marriage worked, especially not when you were married to a woman like Amelia. He was loath to admit it, but perhaps he did need to change, he couldn't keep living as though he was a single man when it suited him.

Suddenly, there was hurried footsteps running up the stairs and the three of them looked towards the door, just as it burst open, "Mr Holmes!" Billy the houseboy dashed into the room, holding a letter in his hand, "Mr Holmes! Telegram, Mr Holmes!"

Holmes moved to take the telegram as Amelia gave the boy a small smile, "Thank you, Billy," she told him, making the young boy smile widely before he hurried back out the door. She turned her attention back onto Holmes as he finished opening the telegram, flicking the folded sheet of paper open as he read the writing inside. He blinked at whatever he read, his eyebrows lifting very slightly, "Holmes?" she frowned faintly, just as he looked directly across to Watson.

"What is it?" Watson asked, glancing at the telegram and away again, trying and failing to seem as though he wasn't curious, "What's wrong?"

"It's Mary," Holmes informed them, eyeing him for a second longer, before catching Amelia's eye and giving her a pointed look. He folded up the telegram and he turned to walk towards the living room door, leaving Amelia to look quickly back to Watson with a slightly wary look.

"Mary?" he repeated, startled and confused, watching Holmes's back, "What about her?"

"It's entirely possible she's in danger," he said as shrugged off his blue dressing gown, revealing his day clothing, somehow perfectly clean, if slightly wrinkled, after days of little self-care.

"Danger?"

"Well then, we must go to her aid at once," Amelia said firmly, ignoring the incredulous expression written across Watson's face. He probably couldn't imagine Mary being in danger from anything worse then a paper cut or accidently poking herself with a needle. It truly was astounding to her how little the man knew about his own wife. She crossed the room to join Holmes as he hung up his dressing gown and grabbed Amelia's dark blue velvet cloak that she had left by the door upon her arrival. He even paused to help place it around her shoulders, which Amelia allowed with a small nod.

"Holmes…" Watson frowned deeply, his eyes narrowed carefully on Holmes, as though half expecting him to either collapse or scoff at the possibility of Mary being in danger, "Is this the cocaine talking?" Holmes caught Amelia's eye as he sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes at Watson's obliviousness as he moved to grab his own coat, leaving Amelia to close the silver clasp of her cloak around her neck, "What danger could Mary be in?" he went on, still watching them, "I'm sure she's just visiting with friends".

"Oh, honestly, Watson," she shook her head, giving him a stern look, just as she might have done to one of her children, "Please do come along now and stop being so…Victorian. It truly is rather exhausting".

Watson's eyes widened, shocked, but Amelia hardly waited to hear what more he had to say as she turned on her heel to go down the stairs, Holmes only just a couple of steps ahead of her as he tugged his morning coat straighter around himself. Behind them, Watson's own footsteps joined theirs, thundering down the stairs, Holmes grimacing slightly as he tried to do the buttons up on his coat as they went. He paused very briefly at the bottom of the stairs, reaching out to catch his balance on the banister railing, supporting himself as he stumbled slightly down off the last step. Amelia reached out and placed a hand on his back, helping him to straighten himself as he continued down the entrance hallway towards the door.

"What is happening?" Watson demanded, stepping down from the last step with a glare aimed in Holmes's direction, apparently not having missed Amelia's little helping hand, "Are you even in a fit state?"

"For Mary, of course," Holmes replied, managing to conceal his pained grimace as Amelia grabbed his coat off the wall hook, eyeing him with a worried expression. He sighed slightly and tried to give her a tight lipped smile, taking the coat from her hand as he began to pull it on, "Never doubt that, Watson," he looked back up to Watson with another sigh, very serious, "Never that".

Suddenly, he sucked in a sharp breath and doubled over with a loud groan.

"Sherlock!" Amelia gasped, grabbing his right arm, looking horribly worried now. Watson quickly moved around to Holmes's left side, and they worked together to try and support him, should he completely collapse upon the floor.

"I'm fine!" Holmes insisted loudly, managing to straighten himself, though Amelia could feel him leaning slightly more towards her then he normally ought to, his cheeks very pale and his eyes rather bloodshot, dark circles surrounding them. He looked terrible, but he still pulled himself free from Watson's grasp and Amelia, rather reluctantly, also released him, though she hovered close beside him. He breathed heavily and reached for his top hat hanging on the hook.

Watson snatched it off him, "Not that one," he told him sharply, throwing the hat back over towards the stairs as Holmes gave him a confused look, Amelia lifting an eyebrow. He turned back to the hooks and grabbed the deerstalker instead, holding it out to Holmes, "This one".

He stared back at him, completely confused, "Why?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes," he glared at him, "Wear the damn hat," he positively shoved the hat into Holmes's chest, the glint in his eyes practically threatening danger if Holmes dared to resist him right now.

Amelia's watched on in amusement, "Best do it, my darling," she advised Holmes, who looked rather taken aback, reaching up to grab the hat pinned against his chest with a slightly annoyed look, "I should think it rather dangerous to your life if you don't".

Watson pointed at Holmes, nodding firmly, "Listen to her".

Holmes sighed heavily and barely managed to hold back an eye roll, sensing that it would do him little good to be seen being to insolate right now. He threw Watson another quick look as he shoved the hat on his head, before turning and throwing the front door open, the three of them filing out, finding Campbell and their personal carriage already waiting just outside for them, amidst the traffic and bustle of the rest of the street. Sometimes there truly was advantage's to having one's own carriage and driver.

…

The carriage quickly made its way through the busy, early evening streets of London and out into the countryside, fields and fences replacing townhouses as they went. Holmes and Amelia sat on the leather covered seat, lightly knocking sides as the carriage rocked with each fast paced step of the horses, while Watson sat across from them, glaring outside the window. He had remained oddly silent since the start of their journey, regardless of the tense way that he held himself or the hard line his lips were set in.

"So, tell me," Watson finally said, not looking away from the window as he spoke, "Where is she?" Holmes sighed and buried his head in his gloved hand, feeling the dull throbbing ach in the back of his skull increasing, making it rather difficult to focus, "You _must_ tell me," he insisted sharply, looking directly across to Holmes, "What's going on?"

"Oh, good old Watson!" Holmes snapped angrily, suddenly lifting his head, glaring outside the window beside him, "How would we fill the time if you didn't ask questions?"

" _Seriously_ , Sherlock?" Amelia said in exasperation, making Holmes blink, his head snapping around to look at her quickly. It wasn't his Amelia that was staring back at him with a deep frown, but rather the 2014 version of her, her hair swept up in a far more modern bun, red lipstick, and a fitted pencil skirt that came to just above her knees and a white blouse. She shook her head at him, small diamonds glinting in the fading light, "This is his _wife_ we're talking about. Try to be a little understanding, would you?"

"I…" he blinked at her, startled, when suddenly he found himself looking back at the Victorian Amelia once more, dressed in the same dark blue dress and sapphire earrings, giving him a mildly disproving look.

"Holmes," she shook her head lightly, her earrings swinging with the gesture, "Must you be so ill tempered? Watson is naturally concerned for his wife; I should hope you would feel the same way for me, if the situation was reversed".

"Sherlock…" Holmes looked back across to Watson, only for his eyes widen. This time it was the 2014 version of Watson glaring angrily back at him, dressed in a blue checked shirt and black leather jacket, clean shaven, " _Tell_ me where my bloody wife is, you pompous prick, or I'll punch your lights out!"

The worlds were starting to collide; Holmes could feel things starting to slip again, merging into one and back again, but what did that mean? Was the dream starting to collapse around him, if so, what did that mean for him? Was he dying in the real world? Was he starting to wake up again? Or had the fact that he now knew that this was a dream, mean that it was fractured somehow, making it impossible for him to remain here without reality bleeding through? For a second, he felt like something warm and soft was grasping his hand, but when he glanced down at his right hand, it was empty, just sitting on his leg, but the sensation was still there, as though someone was holding his hand. He swallowed and wiggled his fingers, until the feeling faded, and he looked back across to Watson, finding the Victorian version of him looking sternly back across to him once more.

"Holmes!" Watson tried again, frowning at him, as though nothing odd had happened, "Where is she?"

Holmes stared at him for a moment longer, half expecting for the modern version of Watson and Amelia to return, but nothing happened, "A desanctified church," he informed him, and Amelia, since he had yet to have the chance to explain exactly what the telegram had held, "She thinks she's found the solution, and for no better reason than that, she's put herself in the path of considerable danger," he looked back out the window, frowning vaguely to himself, still haunted by the colliding of modern and Victorian worlds. His right hand tingled again, "What an _excellent_ choice of wife".

Amelia smiled faintly, "I did try to tell you that Mary is far more capable then you allow her credit, Watson," she said to Watson, who looked rather shocked. She even gave him a little wink and turned to look outside the window, eyeing the medieval, stone church built atop of a hill that loomed out of the fading light in the distance, like something from out of a horror novel.

The carriage began to climb the inclining road leading up to the church and soon enough, they were pulling up just outside the churches front gate, thankfully already left open as the spiked iron and stone fence ran around the outside the very tall, aged structure. Night had completely fallen by the time they climbed down from the carriage, Amelia pausing to instruct Campbell to find a more discreet place to wait for them, before they hurried inside the church grounds. They had to move quietly through the church cloisters, trying to avoid making too much noise on the flagstone flooring as they went, passing pillar after pillar, when just ahead of them, Marry suddenly stepped out into their path. Watson gave a startled gasp and stumbled to a stop, reaching out to steady himself one-handed against the wall beside him.

"What the devil?" he hissed, before he seemed to realise that it just so happened to be his own wife, standing before them in a pair of tweed cycling bloomers and a waistcoat, rather than a dress.

Mary ignored him, "I've found them," she informed them quietly, pointing over towards a doorway at the end of the cloister, looking quite pleased.

They fell silent as a strange chanting began to drift through the air towards them, making Amelia frown and exchange a curious look with Holmes beside her. Mary led the way towards the door, which she opened gently and silently led them inside, creeping down a small set of stone steps, where two metal braziers were sitting upon tripods on either side of the base of the stairs, burning brightly in the dim lighting of the stone chamber they found themselves within. The chanting seemed louder now, echoing off the walls from somewhere close by.

"What _is_ all this, Mary?" Watson demanded in a whisper, stepping down from the last step.

She turned back around to face him, lifting her hands in a calming gesture, "This is the heart of it all, John," she replied in a hushed voice, her eyes lit up with excitement, "The heart of the conspiracy".

"The chanting..." Amelia murmured, frowning as she stepped down beside Watson, who was frowning in confusion at his wife, dropping her handful of her skirts back down, having not wished to trip herself up on the stairs. Mary's bloomers truly were looking like a fantastic idea right about now…, "I do believe it's coming from that direction…" she pointed through the darkness further down the chamber, her forehead wrinkled thoughtfully, "It sounds rather…feminie".

She looked at Holmes, who hummed in agreement, his eyes narrowed as he also seemed to be considering the chanting. It was difficult to make out words, but Amelia thought it sounded like Latin; however, attempting to make out any translation was near impossible with the echo and the fact that her own knowledge of Latin was rather rusty. Slowly, keeping their footsteps light, they began to creep towards the sound, passing by another burning brazier as they moved around into an alcove, peering through arched stone windows that looked out across to another hallway across a void, arched windows on the other side allowing them to watch while a number of individuals in dark purple robes and conical hats, obscuring their faces from view, marched along the hallway, chanting all along.

"Great God, what is this place?" Watson breathed, sounding quite shocked as he peered out of his window towards the figures, before he frowned, looking back across to his wife standing by the window next to him, "And what the _devil_ are you doing here?"

"I've been making enquiries," Mary whispered, "Mr Holmes asked me," she glanced briefly at Holmes and Amelia, who gave her a mildly surprised look.

His eyes widened and he looked quickly towards Holmes, "Holmes, how could you?" he gave him a startled, almost betrayed look.

"No, not him," she shook her head, rolling her eyes as she jerked her head in Holmes's direction, "The clever one," she returned her attention back onto the figures in the distance, while Holmes hardly seemed to even blink. Amelia raised an eyebrow, looking vaguely disapproving, "It seemed obvious to me that this business could not be managed alone, and Mrs Holmes has been so preoccupied lately with young Agatha and William. I had not wished to bother you," she went on with an apologetic smile over her shoulder to Amelia, who could not disagree that much of her time did seem to be taken up with family matters of late, even her political interest had been forced to be put aside more often than not, "My theory is that Mrs Ricoletti had help, help from her friends".

"What a clever notion, Mrs Watson," Amelia said with a small smile, quickly considering her theory. She had to confess that it did make a great deal of sense for Mrs Ricoletti to have perhaps involved her friends in the matter of her apparent return from the grave, and if that was the case then it was quite possible that the very same friend may have used the method for their own purposes, or perhaps told it to others for their own uses. It was certainly a better idea than a woman returning from the grave to haunt them, but it did make Amelia feel strangely upset that she had not thought to consider it. Once upon a time she knew she would have, but the children seemed to take up so much of her time and energy these days, perhaps she was falling into the trap of motherhood, forgetting her own hobbies and interests, becoming just the sort of woman she had never wished to be. She would need to work harder of finding that balance.

Holmes blinked suddenly, his head snapping towards Mary with a frown, "'The clever one?'" he repeated, only just dawning upon him exactly how she had described Mycroft.

"Oh…" Mary looked back to him with a slightly apologetic look.

"Mycroft may be clever, Holmes," Amelia placed her hand lightly on his arm, making him look at her with a slightly disgruntled frown. If it wasn't bad enough that Mary seemed to think that Mycroft was the clever Holmes, now his own wife did, too? "But it's not always about ones intelligence, but rather how one uses it," she pattered his arm reassuringly, though it did feel a tad condescending, too.

"Thank you, Amelia," Holmes sighed, giving her a look, "I do have the most supportive wife, do I not?"

"My darling," she gave him a sweet smile, "If I did not support you as you seem to claim, then I assure you, I would not hesitate to agree absolutely with Mrs Watson's remark, but as it is, I believe whole heartedly that you are just as equal in intelligence to Mycroft. However…I simply feel that Mycroft may have the benefit of age on his side".

"Are you calling Mycroft old, then?"

"Are you truly that vain?"

Holmes had little to say to that, ignoring her raised eyebrow or vaguely amused twitch to her lips, instead he kept his gaze firmly placed on the figures still moving in the distance.

"I thought I was losing you," Watson suddenly said, his voice soft as he watched the figures. Holmes frowned slightly in confusion, glancing back across to him, "I though perhaps we were neglecting…each other".

"Well, you're the one who moved out," Holmes replied without looking back to him, his gaze focused on the robed figures.

"I was talking to Mary," he informed him in exasperation, Amelia laughed softly as Holmes blinked slightly, as though the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He looked back across to Mary, frowning as he eyed her, "You're working for Mycroft?"

Mary looked back across to him, "He likes to keep an eye on his mad sibling".

"And he had a spy at hand," Holmes commented lightly, glancing at Mary, who nodded, before he looked back across to Watson as his eyes widened, "Has it never occurred to you that your wife is excessively skilled for a nurse?"

"Of _course_ it hasn't," Mary cut in before Watson had a chance to speak, scoffing slightly. She glanced behind her to Holmes and Amelia, smirking at them, "Because he knows what a nurse is capable of," she lifted an eyebrow, her smirk fading as she eyed the detectives curiously, "When did it occur to you? Amelia hardly seems surprised at all," she inclined her head towards Amelia, who smiled.

He looked down slightly, "Only now, I'm afraid," he admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

"Must be difficult being the slow little brother," she smiled back at him.

"I was not positive that you were a spy, Mrs Watson," Amelia said as she casually peered through the window, the corner of her mouth lifted very slightly. Holmes lifted his head beside her to give her a quick, narrowed eyed look, clearly rather displeased to have missed whatever little signs she might have noticed, "I did, however, suspect that there must be surely something quite incredible about you, for why else would a man such as Doctor Watson pick you to be his wife," she looked over to Watson, who gave her a rather startled and almost touched look, quite an unusual sight to see from a Victorian English gentlemen, "For all of Watson's flaws and lack of understanding of women, his subconscious mind does sometimes prove to be quite intelligent".

It was something of a back handed compliment, but Watson seemed willing to accept it, giving her a gentle smile, "Holmes," he cleared his throat, turning towards Holmes, "I do rather think you picked an excellent wife".

Holmes inclined his head towards him, "As you did as well, Watson," he glanced back to Amelia, who gave him a bright smile, his heart softening very slightly at the sight, though he would never admit to such a thing aloud. He felt proud and admiration of her, regardless of how this world may treat the women who lived within it, how she might be expected to behave and act, Amelia would always be Amelia, regardless of the century. He forced himself to turn away from her, instead focusing his gaze onto the window, rather than reaching out and touching her cheek, as he was sorely tempted to do, "Enough chatter," he said briskly, attempting to get them back on track, watching the figures in the distant, "Let's concentrate".

"Yes, all right," Mary nodded as they all turned back towards the window, watching closely, "What's all this about?" she wondered aloud, frowning, "What do they want to accomplish?"

"Well…" Amelia glanced at Holmes, smiling faintly, "Perhaps we ought to go and find out?"

Holmes gave her quick smile and grabbed her gloved hand in his, allowing himself the brief excuse of touching her as he turned and led her quickly back through the hallway that they had come down, leaving Mary and Watson to hurry along behind them, keeping their footsteps soft and silent as they went. The quickly turned to go through a narrow doorway in the stone work that seemed to have been recently opened up, hurrying into a large chamber with a low, vaulted ceiling held up with pillars scattered around the room, fires burning at the base of them, casting the room in a dim, golden hue. They followed the loud noise of the chanting, coming upon a opened doorway leading into a small chapel at the end of the chamber, where it seemed that all the robed figures had gathered in rows within the room. A large gong was set up just within the doorway and Holmes, without pausing, grabbed the mallet attached to the gong's frame and struck the metal gong, causing the sound to echo loudly throughout the chamber. Instantly, the chanting stopped as all the figures turned to face them, their faces completely obscured. Amelia, however, frowned as she took a close look at the robes…that purple, it was the same shade as the Suffragette purple strip on her own sash, and they also had gold belts tied around their waists. All that was missing was a dash of white…

"Sorry," Holmes called throughout the room, casually hanging the mallet back up, just as Watson and Mary finally caught up to them, "I could never resist a gong," he turned back to face the figures, "Or the touch of the dramatics, as I'm sure my wife would attest most strongly".

"Indeed I would," Amelia agreed, dragging her eyes off the robes to give him a tight lipped smile, dread starting to wash over her. The purple and gold could just be a colour choice, but she feared that there was far more to it than that.

He let go of her hand as he strolled forward, "Though it seems you share my enthusiasm in that regard," he commented, looking at the completely silent, faceless figures as he walked down the middle of the chapel, the figures turning to watch him as he passed, "Excellent," he smiled faintly, "Superlative theatre. I applaud the spectacle," he turned back around as he reached the alter, walking slowly back towards the doorway, his smile fading, "Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband. So…" he came to a stop in the middle of the room, looking around, "How was it done? Let's take the events in order".

"Of course, it all began on the morning that Mrs Emelia Ricoletti began to fire into the busy street," Amelia began, stepping forward slightly. Even beneath their hoods, she could sense that everyone was listening to what was being said, "She certainly gained a great deal of attention, which I imagine was rather the point, before then turning the gun onto herself, but…" she smiled vey slightly and lifted her index finger into the air, meeting Holmes's eyes from across the room, "What if instead of shooting the revolver in her mouth, she had a second revolver aimed at the ground beside her, which was the gun she _truly_ fired".

"Quite so," Holmes inclined his head towards her, looking rather pleased that she seemed to be following along with him, even though neither of them had had the chance to compare thoughts quite yet. But he supposed that there was truly no other alternative, and when one already had some facts to go on, it was a simple enough conclusion to come to, if one was capable of deduction as they both were, "An accomplice sprays the curtains with blood…" he continued, going on from where she had left off, "And thus her apparent suicide is witnessed by the frightened crowd below. A substitute corpse baring a strong resemblance to Mrs Ricoletti takes her place and is later transported to the morgue".

"To anyone else, it would seem like a simple suicide," Amelia sighed, shaking her head, "Scotland Yard certainly would have had little interest in the events, and no one amongst the crowd below was harmed in any way. It was all perfectly staged, allowing the true Mrs Ricoletti to quietly slip away".

"Now comes the really clever part. Mrs Ricolettie persuaded a cab driver, someone who knew her, to intercept her husband outside his favourite opium den. The perfect stage for a perfect drama, which was, of course, the murder of her husband. The perfect identification, the late Mrs Ricoletti has returned from the grave, and with a little skilled make-up and you have nothing less than the wrath of a vengeful ghost".

"After that, she merely needed to slip away again, down into the underground drain below the street," Amelia said softly, though her voice was easy enough to hear in the complete silence of the room. Watson looked positively stunned by what he was hearing, while even Mary looked quite startled, "But once she had done what she set out to do, there was but one final act to commit. The real Mrs Ricoletti had to die, so that her true corpse could replace the fake in the morgue, thus ensuring that any further attempts to identify her would be absolute".

"But why would she do that?" Mary frowned deeply, shaking her head as she glanced at her husband, and back to Holmes and Amelia, "Die to prove a point?"

Holmes looked across to Amelia, who swallowed and looked down at the floor, both knowing perfectly well now who was truly behind all of this, and it was so much bigger than just Mrs Ricoletti. To Amelia, the realisation came as almost a physical blow to her chest, she had always prided herself on her beliefs and political values, she had always considered herself to be a fighter for the injustice that was so wrongly within their society, but she had not imagined that things would be taken to this level. Logically, she knew that there was a great deal of anger, resentment, and bitterness, but to commit murder and violence like this? She knew these people, she had sat down and had tea with them almost on a weekly bases, she had discussed politics and reformation of government and society as a whole with them, for God's sake, she had even tried her hardest to instil her children with the same values, but this was what had been happening, right beneath her nose, for all these months? And she hadn't even seen it, not in her dearest friends, not in her sisters in arms, she had been totally blinded.

"Every great cause has martyrs," Holmes said as he looked around the room, his eyes sweeping the hooded figures, "Every war has suicide missions, and make no mistake, this is war," he began to walk slowly back towards the alter, looking around at the figures as he spoke, "One half of the human race at war with the other," he stepped up onto the alter, his expression grim, "The invisible army hovering at our elbow, attending to our homes, raising our children…ignored, patronised, disregarded…" he turned back around and walked slowly back towards them, meeting Amelia's saddened eyes across the room, "Not allowed so much as a vote".

At that, all around the small chapel, most of the figures pulled off their hoods to reveal that they were all women. Young and old, titled or middle class, all were united in the one cause, fighting back against the injustice thrown towards them just because of their sex, prepared to go to whatever lengths needed to ensure that their rights were finally realised. Amelia looked around the room, most of the faces she recognised from meetings over afternoon tea or from charity events, and while it was shocking to be confronted by the fact that all this time, she had been totally kept in the dark by people she had trusted and marched alongside, a part of her did feel a spark of pride within her to see women standing together, fighting for a just cause…she just wished it hadn't had to be like this.

"But an army nonetheless," Holmes went on with a grim sigh, while Watson and Mary stared around in shock, "Ready to rise up in the best of causes, to put right an injustice as old as humanity itself. So, you see, Watson, Mycroft _was_ right," he turned back towards Watson and Mary, walking back towards them, stopping beside Amelia, "This is a war we _must_ lose," he looked directly at Amelia, standing close enough to allow his hand to brush hers.

Amelia looked back up to him and gave him a weak smile. Holmes had always supported her in her political views, though he might not take an active role in the movement, nor was he perhaps quite as open in regards to his views on the subject, but he had never made any attempt to hide the fact that he did not listen to what society might say to be right. He had never tried to stop her from doing anything she wished, he had never told her that she couldn't do something due to being a woman or treated her any differently, though perhaps he had treated her with far more respect then he normally would with anyone else. She had the life that these women were fighting for, the right to choose and be respected, to be seen, and she hadn't needed to harm anyone to get it. She was far more fortunate then she had ever truly realised.

"She was dying," Watson said suddenly, making Holmes and Amelia look back over to him.

"Emelia Ricoletti?" Amelia questioned, seeing no other person that he could be speaking of, given the context.

He nodded, "There were clear signs of consumption," he informed them, shaking his head, "I doubt she was long for this world".

Holmes looked thoughtfully back to Amelia, but he wasn't truly looking at her, lost in thought, "So she decided to make her death count," he remarked, and Amelia nodded in agreement, "She was already familiar with the secret societies of America and was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publicly, _very_ publicly, confront Sir Eustace Carmichael with the sins of his past".

"He knew her out in the States," a very familiar voice spoke from behind them, and Amelia's eyes widened, whirling around, her skirts flaring slightly around her ankles, towards the sound of the voice. Beside her, Holmes frowned and also turned in the direction, recognising the voice just as she had, it was the voice of his daughter's godmother, after all, "Promised her everything…" the voice went on, just as Molly Hooper stepped out into view from amongst the other women, holding her hood in her hands, "…marriage, position, and then he had his way with her and threw her over, left her abandoned and penniless".

"Molly!" Amelia exclaimed, staring at her with startled eyes. Of course Molly was here, amidst all of this, but it was still rather shocking to see her dearest female friend speaking so bitterly. She had spent the past four days staying in her apartments, but not once had there been any sign of this, no whisper, it felt like a betrayal that Molly hadn't confided in her the truth. She understood why she hadn't, she had been investigating the case, as a detective she would have been obligated to inform the police, but even still…it made Amelia feel pained to realise that there was a divide between herself and those she had viewed as friends. But she couldn't take this personally, so instead she swallowed hard and pushed the hurt and betrayal away, for now, "So…" she licked her lips, meeting Molly's apologetic, but determined gaze, "I suppose this is what happens when I miss a couple of luncheons".

"I never meant to hurt you, Amelia," she told her sincerely, her expression softening slightly, "You have been a dear friend, a sister, even. But we had to do this, because this…" she gestured to the other women gathered around the room, watching silently, " _This_ is greater than all of us; this is us trying to make a better future for all women, including Agatha".

Amelia wanted to remain upset with her, because it did hurt her, but she also understood it, because if she was in these woman's shoes…she probably would have done the very same thing. She was lucky, she had been independently wealthy since she was nineteen, she had never feared an arranged marriage, instead she had meet Holmes when she was in her early twenties and had the luxury of falling in love with him, eventually marrying him, a man who would never expect her to act like the perfect wife and mother of this century. Sure, she still had to deal with men who thought she was absurd or a joke, sometimes even other women, but she had a career and freedom, just like these women were fighting for.

"Hooper," Holmes said suddenly, his eyes narrowed on Molly's face. In his mind, images from the other, modern world flashed through his mind, standing before Mrs Hooper as she wore a white coat in a laboratory, slapping him across the face, followed by an image of Amelia, dressed in a pair of obscenely tight trousers and Mrs Hooper, laughing about something as they stepped into the living room of Baker Street, both carrying armfuls of shopping bags. The images kept flooding in, each one involving Mrs Hooper, before an image of Doctor Hooper seemed to pause in his mind from the Victorian age, glaring back at him from the other side of a morgue table with an impressive moustache. They were one in the same person, not just Molly Hooper's brother, as Amelia had led him to believe for all these years.

"Holmes," Molly replied with a hint of cold to her tone, focusing onto him, lifting her chin proudly.

"For the record, Holmes," Watson spoke up, making Holmes slowly look over his shoulder to him, quite shocked, "She didn't have me fooled," he gave him a tight lipped smile, before his expression seemed to freeze and his eyes flickered away, resting on something on the other side of the room.

Amelia raised an eyebrow and curiously turned to follow his gaze, smiling as she caught sight of a young woman with curly hair pulled back in a tight bun, leaning slightly forward from amongst the other women, waving cheekily back at Watson. She recognised the girl well from her visits to the Watson's home, it was their maid, Jane, a young girl that Watson had complained of more than once in regards to the girl apparently being to outspoken for a servant. Amelia quickly looked back to Watson, actually laughing at the wide eyed look on his face as he stared back at his own maid as she stepped back amongst the women, before he quickly glanced back to Holmes and Amelia. Holmes simply smirked, looking highly amused.

"Emelia thought that she'd found happiness with Ricoletti, but he was a brute too," a second woman stepped into view, her Irish accent very strong and painfully familiar. Amelia and Holmes both looked at each other, their eyes widening, before they turned to find Miss Hawkins standing a few steps up from Molly, watching them with a perfectly calm expression.

"Miss Hawkins?" Amelia almost gaped, positively stunned by this development. The last time that she had seen of her children's nanny, she had been in the countryside helping to take care of the children, but yet here she was, clearly amongst the other women, dressed in a purple set of robes, seeming perfectly at ease before her employers. Of course, Amelia had known that Hawkins was a Suffragette, it was one of the reasons she had gotten the position, but still…this was not what she would have imagined.

"Mrs Holmes," she nodded to them, "Mr Holmes".

"This is…unexpected," Holmes cleared his throat, frowning deeply at the woman, feeling rather uncomfortable as images flashed through his mind of himself and Miss Hawkins attending modern day John and Mary's wedding with Amelia, followed by snippets of him sitting with the woman in his lap back in his flat, kissing his lips…while he felt nothing but disgust by her lips on his, merely doing it out of a pretence of a case, whishing for nothing more than to just push her away so that he could return to not acting as though he and Amelia had broken up… _Disturbed_ was perhaps a too minor word for how he felt right now.

"Emelia Ricoletti was our friend," Miss Hawkins told them, shaking her head lightly, her eyes narrowed with bitterness, but she seemed completely calm, "You have no idea how that bastard treated her".

Amelia swallowed, horrible thoughts of just what that woman must have gone through filling her mind, while Holmes eyed Miss Hawkins with an unsettled expression on his face, "I'm sure we have a pretty good idea," she said quietly, giving her a sad look, "And he would never have been punished for it, which is why she had to take matters into her own hands, even if it meant dying sooner then she might have done".

"But…" Watson frowned, looking horribly confused, "The Bride, Holmes, Mrs Holmes. We saw her".

Holmes managed to pull himself from his less then pleasant thoughts, turning to face Watson, "Yes, Watson, we did," he agreed, "But the sound of breaking glass? Not a window," Watson blinked, looking quite startled, "Just an old theatrical trick. It's called Pepper's Ghost. A simple reflection, in glass, of a living breathing person".

"There was but one mistake made, however," Amelia added, almost looking sympathetic now, "Had you not of broken the glass, perhaps we would not have reached that conclusion".

"Look around you, Watson," he instructed him; walking further down the chapel, turning on the spot as he went, looking around at all the gathered women, "This room is _full_ of brides. Once she had risen, _anyone_ could be her," he stopped in the middle of the room, his mind filling with all those newspaper articles about the so called 'Bride' murders and crimes that had swept the country, "The avenging ghost, a legend to strike terror into the heart of any man with malicious intent, a spectre to stalk those unpunished brutes whose reckoning is long overdue. A league of furious awakened. The woman I… _we_ have lied to, betrayed…the women we have ignored and disparaged…" he looked at Molly, because he was guilty of that, in both worlds he had relatively ignored the woman or used her for his own means, even in this world, he hadn't even noticed that she was posing as a man.

"And once the idea existed," Amelia sighed, her eyes moving around the room, "It would have spread, for you can't kill an idea once it's been planted".

Holmes's eyes grew more intent, thinking quickly, "This is the work of a single-minded person, someone who knew first-hand Sir Eustace's mental cruelty," he said thoughtfully, "A dark secret, kept from all but her closet friends, including Emelia Ricoletti…" behind him, the sound of footsteps began to sound on the flagstone floor, approaching him slowly, "…the woman her husband wronged all those years before," he continued without turning around, "If one disregarded the ghost, there _is_ only one suspect," he finally turned around, unsurprised to find a figure dressed in a bridal gown standing directly behind him, her face covered by the thick lace of her veil, "Isn't that right, Lady Carmicheal?"

Amelia, however, was frowning, watching the exchange with an almost puzzled expression, "Holmes…" she began, feeling as though she needed to say something, because Lady Carmicheal being the killer of her husband truly did make little sense. Had she missed something, some tiny detail that had just occurred to him?

"I agree perfectly, Amelia," he cut across her, his back turned to her as he eyed the veiled figure, frowning deeply, "Why engage us to prevent a murder you intended to commit?" he waited for a moment, but the bride remained silent, "Hmm?"

There was another brief pause, before soft laughter sounded from behind the veil, sounding far from a woman's, "It's doesn't quite make sense," a mocking, male voice said, doing a poor impression of Holmes's accent. Amelia gave a horrified gasp from behind Holmes, who stared back at the figure in shock, both instantly recognising the voice, "This doesn't quite make sense…" he finally dropped the act, a sneer lacing his next words, "Of _course_ it doesn't make sense".

"This…this is impossible," Amelia breathed faintly, actually stumbled backwards slightly, all the colour draining from her face. Watson hurried forward to lightly grasp her elbow, though even he was staring at the veiled figure in stunned realisation.

"It's not real," Moriarty's voice said from behind the veil, making Holmes blink rapidly, trying to make sense of what was happening. He snored mockingly, as though bored, "Oh, Sherlock," he cooed as if he was disappointed, before he abruptly reached up and flipped the veil back, revealing his face. His dark eyes glared into Holmes's as Holmes gasped, dried blood smeared across the middle of his lips from where he had shot himself in the mouth. Professor James Moriarty, returned from the grave, "Peekaboo".

Amelia grabbed Watson's arm, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of her once seemingly dead brother. She looked as though she was about to collapse, watching in transfixed horror as Moriarty smirked and flickered his eyes over towards her. He even had the audacity to wink.

"No," Holmes whispered, shaking his head lightly, staring back at the man before him as Moriarty turned back to face him, "No, not you. It _can't_ be you".

"I mean, come on, be serious," Moriarty narrowed his eyes on him, scoffing, "Costumes, the gong. Speaking as a criminal mastermind, we don't really have gongs, or special outfits".

Holmes cringed as something bright flashed across his vision, blinding him as he closed his eyes against the glare, but even with his eyes closed, he could still make out the shape of a person hovering above him, looking remarkably similar to Victorian Watson, shining a small torch into his eyes. His right hand tingled again with warmth, but this time the feeling felt so real, he could actually feel the sensation of another's skin pressed against the palm of his own hand, feel slim fingers entwined with his own slightly longer and larger ones, and smell the scent of expensive French vanilla perfume and antiseptic, surrounding him like a blanket.

" _What the_ _hell_ _is going on_?" Watson's voice called angrily, but it sounded different from Victorian Watson, less formal, perhaps, harsher in tone, from somewhere around Holmes.

" _Sherlock…_ " Amelia's voice said softly, filled with so much concern and fear that it made Holmes want to wince again. Her Irish accented sounded softer in her modern day version, having spent less time growing up in Ireland then her Victorian counterpart, " _Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock_ …"

It seemed to take a great deal of effort for Holmes to open his eyes again, frowning as he was meet by the sight of Moriarty once more, the smell of vanilla and antiseptic still lingering in his nose and his hand still holding the ghost of someone's touch.

"Is this silly enough for you yet?" Moriarty glared back at him, tilting his head very slightly, "Gothic enough? Mad enough, even for you?" Holmes wanted to turn away, he wanted to pretend as though this wasn't happening, feeling as though everything was collapsing on top of him, but he couldn't seem to make his own body move. It was as if he and Moriarty were the only two people left in this entire word, this nightmare, even Watson and Amelia were gone now, nothing more than a figment of his imagination, "It doesn't make sense, Sherlock, because it's not real," his voice dropped to a whisper, " _None_ of it".

The light flashed across his eyes again.

" _What's he talking about_?" John's voice drifted through the air again, echoing slightly.

" _Sherlock, just open your eyes, okay_?" Amelia's voice called, almost desperately, " _Sherlock, you're safe, I promise…"_

"This is all in your mind".

Holmes squeezed his eyes shut, hearing a machine beeping somewhere in the background, feeling a thumb lightly running across the knuckles of his right hand. It felt so real to him now.

" _Sherlock_ ".

Light flashed across his vision, blinding and painful, but clearer than ever before.

"Holmes!" Watson's voice shouted, sounding worried, but his voice fading off slightly, as though coming from far away. He forced his eyes open again, breathing heavily as he stared back at Moriarty.

"You're dreaming," Moriarty whispered, and Holmes gasped, feeling as though his heart was about to leap out of his chest.

" _Is he dreaming_?" Mary's voice washed over him, and he blinked as his version seemed to clear slightly, allowing him to focus as Mary, modern day Mary, as she came into focus as she stood at the end of the bed he seemed to be lying on, eyeing him with a small frown. Beside him, Amelia was sitting worriedly, her face pale as she grasped his right hand tightly, peering into his face, while John leaned above him, shining a small penlight into his eyes.

"I think he's waking up now," Amelia said in relief, her grip on his hand almost painfully tight, peering even more intently into Sherlock's face, "Sherlock?" She called a bit more loudly, "Can you hear us?"

He blinked and managed to open is eyes properly, finding himself lying flat on his back on what seemed to be a hospital bed, staring up at the white, blank ceiling above him. He cringed slightly as John continued to shine the light in his eyes, while he tried to adjust to being so abruptly woken from the Victorian age.

"And there he is," Mycroft's slightly sarcastic voice came from his left side, making Sherlock glance slightly in his direction, finding his older brother sitting on a seat by his bedside, peering down at him with an annoying little quirk to his lips, "Thought we'd lost you for a moment. May I just check: is this what you mean by 'controlled usage?'" he lifted an eyebrow.

Amelia sighed grimly, looking across to Mycroft with a slightly pointed look, "What a lovely way to ask if your baby brother is feeling okay, Mycroft," she commented, almost as sarcastically.

Sherlock ignored them both, blinking rapidly, "Mrs Emelia Ricoletti," he said groggily, his eye still horribly bleary, "I need to know where she was buried".

"Seriously, Sherlock?" Amelia looked back down to him with a look caught between disbelief and exasperation. She sighed again, rolling her eyes as she glanced over to Mary, "This is just what every girlfriend wants to hear upon their boyfriend waking up, that they want to find another woman after almost _dying_ ".

"She's dead, Amelia," he muttered, cringing slightly against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lighting within the room, stinging his eyes, "Hardly competition".

" _Really_ not the point right now, Sherlock," she gave him a sharp, narrowed eyed look. Any hint of lightness she might have had before was completely gone now, instead she looked truly shaken, despite the flippancy of her tone, "You did catch the part where I mentioned that you _almost_ died, didn't you?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, frowning deeply, "Emelia Ricoletti has been dead for one hundred and twenty years".

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, wincing as he braced his elbows onto the bed and tried to pull himself upright, trying to ignore John's hand trying to push him back down.

"That would take weeks to find, if those records even exist," he told him dismissively, lightly lifting his gloved covered hand in a lightly shrug, "Even with my resources…"

"Got it," Mary announced suddenly from the base of the bed, making them all look to see her looking down at her phone.

Amelia frowned and exchanged a worried look with John.

 _ **Just one more chapter to go before we're onto season 4, which is so very exciting because I've got lots planned for that season, especially in regards to Sherlock and Amelia's relationship. I think this is the part where I insert evil laughter. As always, Amelia's outfit will be on my Tumblr and Pinterest page.**_

 _ **Next chapter, Sherlock remains torn between the two worlds, Amelia is having a slight emotional breakdown, and John has a few hard home truths to tell Sherlock. Tell me what you thought, please review :)**_

 _ **Guest review:**_

 _ **LadyRedStar:**_ _ **Yep, Sherlock completely meant it when he said he loved Amelia, but he seriously could have picked a much better time to do it rather then while under the influence. I really wanted him to say it at least once to Amelia before he got on the plane and I kind of figured, the one way he would ever actually say it to her face was if he thought he was never going to see her again. Of course, he didn't exactly think that Moriarty would pop up again from beyond the grave and destroy that, meaning that while he might have gotten away with it before, now everyone knows he was off his face, including Amelia. She is certainly not happy with it, not one bit, but there's more important things to be focusing on, so she can't allow herself to get to upset over it.**_

 _ **There's still plenty more to come, I am so excited for what is to come within the next story :)**_


	9. Chapter 9 Between Dreams and Reality

_**Between Dreams and Reality**_

As much as Sherlock might have complained and insisted that they didn't have time, Amelia and John had both remained firm that before he was to be discharged from the hospital, he needed to be given a full medical assessment, including bloods and urine testing. Of course, when they were informed that it would likely take them another two hours, if they were lucky, before any staff would be able to see them, Sherlock very nearly threw a fit and practically threatened to climb out the window the first chance he got. Mycroft intervened, flashing that conceding little smile of his that to most people who didn't know him personally, most likely seemed charming, thankfully resulting in a nurse suddenly becoming available to see Sherlock. It was actually really quite amazing that Sherlock's assessment went quite well, his blood pressure was a bit higher than normal, as was his heart rate, but that might not have been an after effect of coming down from the drugs. He was pretty agitated to leave.

Finally, after an hour of Amelia resisting the urge to strangle Sherlock as he paced and complained loudly and frequently that they were wasting time, his results came in, clearing him to be fit enough to leave, even though medical staff strongly advised that he remain overnight for observations…Sherlock had already been storming off down the hallway towards the lift before the nurse even had a chance to shove the paperwork at him, the poor women looked as though she was deeply relieved to see the back of all five of them in the end. By the time they were setting off in the back of a police car to drive to the graveyard that Emelia Ricoletti had been buried in, Amelia was just relieved to not have to sit in a hard, uncomfortable hospital chair any longer, ignoring Sherlock's bouncing leg as he sat in the back of the car beside her, glaring out the window and occasionally cursing when they got stopped by a traffic light.

They reached the graveyard after what had felt like an age, their car pulling up just outside the front door of the small, stone church, behind another police car that Lestrde had just climbed out of with Mycroft. Sherlock barely waited for the car to come to a complete stop before he was throwing his seatbelt off, Amelia having to remind him to put the damn thing on in the first place, and practically jumping out of the car. She followed at a slightly calmer pace, sighing heavily as she shut her door behind her and moved around the back of the car to join him as he popped the boot open, her heels clicking nosily on the tar driveway. Just behind them, the police car carrying John and Mary pulled up a moment later, both of them climbing out, walking towards them.

"I don't get it," John said as he approached them, Sherlock grabbing a shovel from out the back of the police car, "How is this relevant?"

"I need to know I was right, then I'll be sure," Sherlock replied distractedly, turning to walk passed the police cars with the shovel in his hand, towards the rows and rows of headstones scattered throughout the churchyard before them, following behind two uniformed police officers as they led the way to the proper grave.

"You mean how Moriarty did it?" Mary asked, her pace slightly slowed, one hand pressed against the side of her baby bump, while Lestrade and Mycroft fell into step behind her.

"Yes".

"But that was all just a dream, Sherlock," Amelia reminded him, sighing slightly as they were forced to step off the tared driveway and onto grass. She still managed to keep just one step behind him as they moved, though she was focusing carefully on her feet, trying to walk on her toes. Trying to clean caked mud from off a pair of two thousand pound pair of Louboutins with a toothbrush was not something she wished to be doing later, "You made it up, in your head, from historical facts from a murder committed over a hundred years ago," she frowned at the back of his head, "Sure, the crime might have been similar, but it's not the same as James's so called return".

"Maybe not," he agreed, still following behind the police, adjusting his hold on the shovel in his hands, "But if we both knew about the same crime, Amelia, then it stands to reason that perhaps Moriarty did, too. He could have used the same method".

"James is dead," she said firmly, swallowing hard, "I know he is…" she frowned slightly to herself, shivering deeper into her red coat at the thought of the alternative, "He _has_ to be".

Sherlock didn't say anything to that, though he did glance back over his shoulder to her, meeting her eyes briefly before focusing back ahead of himself, his pace not slowing in the slightest. The look he gave her was almost sympathetic, or as sympathetic as Sherlock Holmes was capable of looking, his eyes softer then they had been since he had woken up. He would understand better than most why she was so insisted upon James being dead, he knew that as much as she felt conflicted about James's death, she knew that it was better that he was gone now, gone far, far away to a place that he couldn't hurt anyone else, ever again…or so they had thought. If he truly was back from the dead, then how many more lives could he ruin? How much more pain could he cause?

Just up ahead of them, the two uniformed police slowed their pace as they reached a very old looking stone headstone, weeds and gnarled vines curled around the base of the headstone, while the grass that grew over the top of the grave looked as though it hadn't been trimmed in a while. There was no flowers or little sentimental objects that had been left behind at the base of the stone like on a more modern headstone, not that one would expect there to be. The grave was over one hundred and twenty years; it was surprising that the writing was still decipherable.

"The stone was erected by a group of her friends," Mary informed them as they neared the grave, glancing back up from the phone in her hand.

Mycroft frowned deeply, eyeing Sherlock's back, "I don't know what you think you'll find here," he remarked doubtfully.

"I need to try!" Sherlock snapped over his shoulder, throwing him a sharp glare, before storming closer to the headstone, pausing before it as they all came to a stop, looking at the faded words carved into the marked and dirty stone:

 _Emelia Ricoletti_

 _Beloved Sister_

 _Faithful Beyond Death_

 _Died Decemeber 18_ _th_ _1894_

 _Aged 26_

"She was only twenty six old," Amelia said sadly, just managing to make out the faded lettering, age having almost completely stolen away Emelia Ricoletti's final marking place on Earth. It seemed like a terribly reminder of how decaying time could be, how it could only take a generation or two for one person to become forgotten, Emelia Ricoletti had been almost completely erased from existence, too, now. Her lasting legacy now her death, a death that few likely even knew about. It was hard to imagine that there was once a time in London society when her name was practically an urban legend.

"Mrs Ricoletti _was_ buried here," Sherlock stared down at the grave, pulling Amelia back from her own thoughts, "But what happened to the other one, the corpse they substituted for her after the so-called suicide?" he looked back up to them, frowning.

"They'd move it," John answered, glancing down at the grave, "Of course they would".

"But where?"

"Well, not _here_!"

"No, but it makes sense for them to have buried it here, John," Amelia cut in, seeing how exasperated John was starting to get. He blinked and looked at her quickly, as though he hadn't expected her to agree with him, which he probably hadn't. They both seemed to be in agreement in the fact that they shouldn't even be here right now, not when they had a case right now in need of their attention, "I mean…" she went on, looking back to the grave, eyeing it thoughtfully, "They already had a grave, no one would have noticed if a second coffin was buried either before or after Mrs Ricoletti's real body was buried…more likely before hand," she shrugged lightly, feeling all of their eyes on her now, "Plus, gravediggers were paid barely anything, if someone gave them a bit extra to turn a blind eye and dig the hole a bit deeper, who would have turned that down back then?"

"Excellent point, Amelia," Sherlock said with a pleased look in her direction. It didn't matter how hard she tried, she still couldn't help smiling very slightly, before he turned his attention back onto John, "The conspirators had someone on the inside," he said, nodding, "They found a body just like Molly Hooper found a body for _me_ when I…" he trailed off quickly at the dark, narrowed eyed look John shot him and Amelia's warning look. He inhaled sharply as he looked down at the grass, "Yeah, well, we don't need to go into all that again, do we?" he shifted his grip on the shovel and poised the end of the shovel over the top of the grave, preparing to dig into the earth.

John's eyes widened, alarmed, while Amelia grimaced, "You're not seriously gonna do this?" he asked quickly.

He paused and looked back up to him, "It's why we came here!" he exclaimed, annoyance crossing his features as he shook the shovel pointedly, "I need to know," he bent closer to the grave, moving to start digging again.

He shook his head in exasperation and turned away from the grave, "Spoken like an addict".

"John…" Amelia sighed, moving to reach out and grab his arm, before she thought better of it, dropping her arm back to her side. She could understand where he was coming from, because she wasn't blind or an idiot, the way Sherlock was behaving was, quite frankly, pretty ridiculous. He was trying to solve a crime from the modern era with a completely different crime from one hundred and twenty years ago, and while she could also see the logic there, she could also see that Sherlock seemed almost manic, almost desperate to need to solve this one crime, when he should have been focusing on the bigger picture here: finding out what her brother was or had set into motion. How he did or didn't survive his own suicide was a minor concern right now.

Sherlock straightened again and looked at John sharply, "This is important to me!" he snapped.

"No!" John spun back around, pointing at him, "This is you needing a fix".

"John…"

"Moriarty's back," he cut across him, glaring angrily, "We have a case! We have a real-life problem right now".

"Getting to that! It's next on the list! Just let me do this," he turned back to the grave, bending to slam the shovel down into the grass.

"What about Amelia, Sherlock?" he demanded suddenly, making Amelia blink in surprise, actually giving John a startled look as she suddenly found him pointing his index finger at her, his glare fixed on Sherlock's back. Sherlock sighed and straightened, glancing back to him, "This is her brother we're talking about, the same brother who terrorised her half her life and tried to drown her, just to blame you for her murder!"

Amelia flinched at his blunt wording, while Sherlock narrowed his eyes on John, "Can we please leave me out of this?" she muttered uncomfortably, wishing dearly that John hadn't tried to use the sister card.

"Did you even stop to consider how this might be affecting her right now?" John seemed to be beyond listening right now, his cheeks a faint pink colour with anger as he took a step closer to Sherlock, who stood completely motionless, staring back at him with emotionless eyes, "I saw her face when we found out Moriarty might be back, she's _terrified_ , and all you can think about is digging up a one hundred year old grave! She should be your priority right now…!"

"Amelia is _always_ my priority!" Sherlock said loudly, making Amelia's eyes widen, her head snapping back to him in shock that he had actually admitted that aloud, before not just John and Mary, but his brother, Lestrade, and the several other police officers dotted around the graveyard, his voice carrying easily so that they could all hear. He took half a step towards John, his eyes narrowed furiously, but he seemed to be trying, with effort, to lower his voice, going on in a calmer tone, "I'm doing this for her, for all of you, because if we know how Moriarty survived, then maybe we can figure out his plan".

It was a rather poor excuse, as far as Sherlock's usual excuses went, in Amelia's mind, but it seemed to make John pause, just for a second. But the truth was that they all knew that Sherlock's obsession with this century old murder/suicide was little more than a distraction from what they needed to be focused on; they could all see that, but why? Why had it gotten into his head like this? Amelia tried to push away the warm feeling that hearing him speak about her like that did to her, instead trying to focus on the facts. Why was he so determined to try and solve this crime? Was it because he was scared of the actual possibility that her brother was alive? She could certainly understand him trying to put off trying to find out if James was truly alive for as long as possible, using this old case as a handy excuse for him to delay the possible chance of James being back.

"Can we _please_ just stop this?" she tried again as silence settled over them, sighing as she looked between John's pink face and Sherlock's barely concealed angry glare, directed at John, "Look, I'm…okay," she forced a strained smile, "I'm not exactly thrilled right now, but we're all dealing with a lot right now. Sometimes you have to be logical and just focus on the bigger picture and us, the _three_ of us fighting, isn't helping anything," she gave them both a firm look as she spoke, suddenly feeling as though she had aged twenty years, "Can we please just…do what we need to do so that we can get out of here?"

"No," John shook his head, his voice flat and his jaw tense as he looked back across to Sherlock, "Everyone always _lets_ you do whatever you want!" he shouted at Sherlock, "That's how you got in this state".

Amelia winced slightly and looked down, knowing that there was some truth to his words. She did often wonder if she would put up with Sherlock's behaviour if it had come from anyone else, in the past, when she had been dating during her early twenties and late teens, before she had sworn off dating for those few years before meeting Sherlock, she doubted she would have had the patience to have dealt with dating someone like Sherlock. It didn't bother her that he sometimes needed more encouragement in regards to compliments or normal social cues, it didn't bother her if he wasn't the romantic type and never planned dates or romantic holidays, it didn't even bother her that he may never want to marry her, she'd been married before, she'd ticked it off her bucket list. But what did bother her was that sometimes it felt like she was to forgiving or accepting of things like this, because it was just how Sherlock was. It couldn't be changed and nor would she wish to, but if it was anyone else, would she still be so forgiving?

"John, _please_ …" Sherlock began.

"I'm not playing this time, Sherlock, not anymore!" he took small step backwards and flexed the fingers on his left hand, while they all watched on silently, Mary, Lestrade, and Mycroft with matching expressions of awkwardness, while Amelia looked troubled, her eyes flickering rapidly between her two friends. John took a moment to calm himself slightly, before saying in a softer tone, "When you're ready to go to work, give me a call," he reached out and took Mary by her elbow, "I'm taking Mary home".

"You're what?" Mary said at once, lifting an eyebrow, refusing to move from her spot when he went to walk them away.

"Mary's taking me home".

"Better," she nodded.

He went to walk away again, before he hesitated, looking back up to Amelia, "Amelia, do you want a lift?"

Amelia looked at him sadly, feeling conflicted between wanting to make a point to Sherlock and going with them, proving to herself, too, that she didn't always side with Sherlock and his mad plans, but she could also see how important this was to Sherlock, and if the roles were reversed, would Sherlock back her? He would, she knew that already, if she was positive that it could help a case, no matter how insane or crazy it might sound, he would support her. She straightened her shoulders and, without so much as glancing at Sherlock to see his reaction, looked steadily back at John.

"I'm his partner, John," she told him, her voice soft but firm, "I may not agree with his idea, but we work together. If he says this is important to him…I have to support him".

John didn't look surprised in the slightest, eyeing her with an almost pitying look, which made her almost feel like snapping at him to stop looking at her like that, but she bit her tongue. His eyes flickered past her to where she knew Sherlock was still standing by the grave, before he looked back to her with a stiff nod, conceding agreement with her choice. He turned and walked away with Mary, and Amelia finally turned around to find Sherlock eyeing her with a half-surprised, half-relieved expression on his face, which he promptly concealed the second he caught her eye.

"He's right, you know," Mycroft said after a pause, moving to stand where the Watsons had been standing, looking calmly at his younger brother.

"So what if he's right?" Sherlock snapped angrily, his voice rising loudly, though he dropped his gaze onto the grass, "He's _always_ right. It's boring," he fell silent as they all watched him, waiting as he glared briefly up at his brother, before dropping his gaze back down onto the ground. After a moment, he asked more quietly, "Will you help me?"

Mycroft didn't answer at first, watching his brother as Sherlock finally looked back up to him properly, his head still slightly ducked. Slowly, Mycroft glanced across to Lestrade, raising an eyebrow at the other man, who stood slightly off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest. They exchanged a look, before Mycroft turned back his brother.

"Cherchez la femme," he said with a gesture towards the grave, shrugging lightly.

Sherlock looked back across to Amelia, not having missed her silence, apparently. She meet his eyes and was almost surprised by how vulnerable he looked, something that he rarely showed, "Amelia," he hesitated, closing his eyes briefly, before opening them again with what looked like a great deal of effort, looking back at her warily, almost fearfully, "You don't need to be here, you said so yourself, you don't agree".

She gave him a sad little smile, "I know what I said, Sherlock," she told him, her voice lighter then she felt, hiding just how tired she truly felt, as though she could sleep for ten years and still need a nap after that, "And I also said I would stay, because this is important to _you_ ".

He took a couple of steps closer to her, turning his body slightly to block out Mycroft and Lestrade, "Are you…sure?" he asked quietly, leaning slightly closer to her. John's words must have struck a nerve, he was never usually this concerned, but John's words about Sherlock's apparent lack of concern towards how she was fairing with this whole mess must have had some impact.

"Sherlock, I can't believe I'm telling you this, but emotional breakdown later, yeah?" she gave him a strained smile, which felt rather painful and no doubt looked it, too, judging by the why Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, "Same with the discussion about how you decided to tell me, for the very first time, that you loved me while under the influence of drugs and the whole drug thing in general".

"Sounds delightful".

"As delightful as digging up a corpse, I expect," she shot back, her pained grimace lightening and growing more sincere, her eyes twinkling slightly, "By the way, don't expect me to touch that shovel, I only got my nails done yesterday".

Sherlock scoffed slightly, but he seemed satisfied by her response. As if he couldn't surprise her any more then he already had, he actually reached out and lightly brushed a strand of hair that had slipped out of her French twist back behind her left ear, his finger lingering just slightly longer on the skin behind her ear then needed, his eyes soft. She smiled gently, positively adoring this side of him, the side of him that was shockingly sweet and tender at times, the side that most but her ever got to see from him, making it all the more special to her that he only showed it to her. He stepped away from her and moved back across to the grave and gripped the handle of the shovel with both hands, right before he plunged it right into the earth.

….

The hours ticked by while Amelia peered over the side of the grave, sitting on the edge of a fold up chair that she had grabbed when she had ducked off to the local shops she had seen on their drive to the graveyard, Mycroft sitting in second bright yellow one beside her with a bored expression on his face, holding a torch down over the grave to provide Sherlock and Lestrade light. The look on his face when she had present the chair to him, smiling cheekily all the while, probably would have made someone else instantly duck for cover, but Mycroft was a kitten compared to her brother. If she had survived growing up in a house with him she could survive being glared at by Mycroft Holmes. Night had fallen an hour ago, and still it seemed as though they were making little progress, Sherlock and Lestrade busy digging at either end of the grave, now standing shoulder deep in it, but there was yet to be any sign of a coffin or a second body.

She sighed heavily as she snuggled herself deeper into Sherlock's discarded coat and scarf as he dug in his shirt and trousers, night bringing with it an unpleasant chill in the January air, causing their breath to mist into the air. Not only had she bought a couple of chairs along with her after ducking to the shops, she had also managed to find a shoe shop, and while it hadn't held any designer labels, she had found a pair of knee high boots that worked with her dress and were flat, less vulnerable to being destroy by mud, and they also provided her legs with some protection from the chill. Her heels were sitting safely in the footwall of Lestrade's police car, along with her handbag.

She slipped her phone from out of her own coat pocket, Sherlock's coat draped over her shoulders, and gave another loud sigh at the time, "I wonder if my parents ever imagined this was how my life would be when they were paying all those expensive Catholic school fees when I was a kid," she commented as she slipped the phone away, staring tiredly down into the grave, "Though, getting expelled at thirteen probably should have given them a decent sign".

"You could always help, Amelia," Lestrade called up to her, grunting slightly as he lifted a shovel full of dirt and tossed it back onto the ground next to the grave, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Lestrade, when have you ever known me to do manual labour?" she smirked slightly, peering down at him, "Besides, I rather think you and Sherlock look good, very… _manly_. Oh, if only your admirers could see you now…"

"Do _not_ even think about taking a picture and putting it on Instergram," Sherlock said sharply, just as Amelia had been reaching for her phone again, grinning wickedly.

She reluctantly dropped her hand back into her lap, rolling her eyes, "You two really take all the fun out of desecrating a grave," she muttered, tugging Sherlock's coat tighter around her, like a large blanket, longing for something, anything, to do right now other than to watch them shovelling dirt. Mycroft wasn't much of a talker, either, though what they would discuss was probably limited…politics? That kind of seemed dangerous, given Mycroft's job.

Just then, Sherlock brought his shovel down and a hollow thump resounded through the air, instantly making them all freeze. Slowly, Sherlock straightened, panting slightly as he looked back up over the top of the grave to Amelia, meeting her eyes as she sat forward in her chair, finally relieved that something was happening. Together, Sherlock and Lestrade quickly worked to clear the rest of the soil from off the top of the dark wooden coffin, before digging around the sides of it enough to be able to free it. Amelia and Mycroft quickly moved their chairs aside, watching as Lestrade and Sherlock both took an end of the coffin and began to pull it up out of the grave…though she had been most insist about not damaging her manicure, Amelia did quickly move to help Lestrade pull his end of the coffin up over the edge of the grave, seeing as Sherlock seemed to have his handled.

It took them a couple more minutes to pull, tug, and lift the coffin up, but finally they managed to get it up out of the hole, lowering it down onto the damp ground by the grave. Lestrade gave a pained groan as he slowly began to straighten himself, some dirt on his cheek as Sherlock breathed heavily from the other end of the coffin, and Amelia cringed and tried to brush the dirt off her hands, trying to see if she had chipped any nail polish off in the torchlight.

"I thought you didn't 'do' manual labour, Amelia," Sherlock lifted an eyebrow across to her, still breathing harder than normal.

Amelia shrugged lightly as she looked curiously over the top of the coffin lid, dirt and clay still clinging to it in places, but the coffin looked as though it would have been considered expensive back in the Victorian day and age, "Poor Lestrade looked as though he was going to hurt something," she replied, though her attention was still on the coffin, missing the mildly offended, breathless look Lestrade shot her upon hearing her words.

Lestrade didn't take offense for very long, reaching for the crowbar sitting on the ground by the coffin as he began to pry the lid off, grunting loudly in effort as he managed to crack his end open, before passing the crowbar off to Sherlock, who did the same thing at his end, quickly breaking the nailed seal. Once the seal was broken, they both grabbed an edge of the lid and lifted it off, sitting it off aside from the coffin, while Amelia cringed in disgust, taking a small step back. Mycroft's torch lit up the skeletal remains within the coffin, worms and dirt clinging to the bones, wiggling through empty eye sockets and a wide, gaping mouth of teeth, making for a rather horrifying sight. Surrounding the remains still, was the fragile, rotted remains of a lace wedding gown, discoloured yellow and brown, the veil still attached to what little was left of hair. But the worst of it was the smell, which seemed to fill the air with a revolting rotting odour that seemed to cling in the back of one's throat until you could almost taste it. Amelia gagged and took another large step back, covering her mouth and nose, Lestrade staying back with Mycroft, while Sherlock moved to lean over the coffin, also covering his mouth and nose.

"Urgh!" he groaned slightly as he was assaulted by the smell, but he managed to overcome it quickly, falling onto his knees beside the coffin, casting his eyes over it, before reaching inside the coffin. Amelia feared she might actually vomit as she watched him grabbing at the bones, moving them aside, searching for any hint of a second body, though it was plain to see that he would not find one.

"Oh dear," Mycroft said as he came to stand over the coffin with the torch, Amelia forcing herself to edge closer again, the air feeling slightly fresher now, "The cupboard is bare".

"Sherlock," Amelia uncovered her mouth and nose, reaching down to place a hand on his shoulder, seeing how increasingly desperate and frantic his searching was growing, "There's nothing else in there, no other body".

Sherlock stopped, but his eyes landed on the grave, staring at it, "They must have buried it underneath, like you said earlier," he said quietly, "They must have buried it under the coffin".

He rose and leaped over the top of the coffin, dashing back over to the edge of the grave, jumping back down into it. Amelia frowned slightly as she watched him grab handfuls of dirt, tossing it back out of the hole, while she, Lestrade, and Mycroft edged closer to peer down at him as he frantically dug more and more handfuls of earth out, his movement positively frantic. She bit her lip worriedly and glanced at Lestrade and Mycroft, but they simply shook their heads at her, before turning their attention back onto Sherlock. Lestrade gave a large sigh.

"Bad luck, Sherlock," he said bracingly, while Sherlock panted from the effort of his digging, frantically scrabbling away at the bottom of the grave, "Maybe they got rid of the body in another way".

"More than likely," Mycroft agreed, nodding as he eyed his brother with a worried frown, though Sherlock seemed to be paying them little attention, still digging frantically, "At any rate, it was a very long time ago".

"Sherlock," Amelia carefully crouched by the edge of the grave, watching him, feeling her heart breaking at how desperate he was to try and prove that he was right, to try and find the second body that obviously wasn't there, "Sherlock, it's time to stop this now," she made her voice stronger, firmer, "You did what you wanted to do and the results weren't what you expected, that's okay, it happens. But it's time to move on, we've got a case, _remember_?" she sighed heavily, when he simply continued to paw at the ground even more violently, "Sherlock, _please_ …"

"Do not forget me," a hushed, female voice suddenly began to whisper through the air, sending a shiver down all of their spines. They all froze, listening as even Sherlock stopped, glancing over towards the coffin, "Do not forget me…"

Amelia swallowed, hard, "You…you heard that too, right?" she breathed shakily, sounding truly afraid.

"Yeah…" Lestrade murmured beside her, actually edging slightly closer to her, as though readying himself to throw himself in front of her if need be…She was grateful for the gesture, though she wasn't totally helpless.

Mycroft lifted the torch and pointed it over towards the coffin, and their jaws dropped in disbelief and horror, watching in shock as the corpse's skeletal hand began to rise from where it had been lying on the body's chest, slowly straightening out. A horrible creaking nose came from every shift and movement of the bones, while all they could do was stare on, Sherlock turning around to look up at the coffin with wide eyes, watching as the skeleton's head began to lift, its mouth emitting a feral, furious scream that pieced the silent night air. Sherlock didn't even have a chance to try and climb out of the grave, when the skeleton suddenly threw its self at him, flattening him into the deep, dark depths of the grave…

Suddenly, Holmes started violently as his eyes snapped open, finding himself lying on a hard, rocky surface, water pouring over him as he grabbed at his chest, still feeling the sensation of the skeleton pushing him down. He gasped slightly as he blinked rapidly, realising vaguely that he was dressed in his Victorian counterparts clothing once more, deerstalker included, the thick, woollen fabric of his coat feeling heavy and wet against him. He looked around quickly and sighed in exasperation, realising that he was quite a long way from the graveyard in 2014.

"Oh, I see," he said aloud, rolling his eyes as he propped himself up on his elbow, "Still not awake, am I?"

He seemed to be lying on a narrow rock ledge, just a meter away from the rushing current of a waterfall plunging passed his ledge, water splashing over him constantly. He sat up a bit more, looking around, when he noticed a second figure standing just a few feet away from him, further along the ledge from him. Professor James Moriarty watched him calmly, dressed in a black Victorian suit and tie, ignoring the water spraying over them both. Holmes grimaced at the sight of him and roughly tugged at the visor of his deerstalker in a useless attempt to try and keep his eyes clear of water, wishing dearly that of all the people who could have been standing before him, it just had to be Moriarty, the Victorian version.

"Too deep, Sherlock," Moriarty called to him, "Way too deep," Holmes reached out and grabbed the side of the mountain, bracing himself against the rock as he used it to him pull himself back onto his own feet. Once he was upright, he kept his hand against the rock, leaning into it slightly, feeling his head spinning, "Congratulations," he continued, "You'll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace".

Holmes stared out over the rushing current of the waterfall, watching it in an attempt to ignore Moriarty's entire presence, but it was clear that the other man would not just simply vanish, even if this was only a dream and one of his own making. He sighed to himself and reluctantly turned around to face the other man.

"The setting's a shade melodramatic, don't you think?" he remarked lightly, gesturing back behind him towards the waterfall.

"For you and me?" Moriarty lifted an eyebrow, looking up as water sprayed over him, drenching his clothing, "Not at all," he looked directly back across to Holmes, cold, dark, emotionless eyes glaring back at him through the moonlight night, so similar and yet so different from Amelia's own eyes.

He narrowed his eyes on him, frowning, "What _are_ you?"

"You know what I am. I'm Moriarty," his voice grew slightly more sarcastic, "'The Napoleon of crime. And thanks to little Amy, you brother-in-law".

"Moriarty's dead," Holmes said firmly, ignoring his last little remark, because it wasn't true. Not really, any memories he might have, vague as they were of the wedding in question, was a fabrication, a dream.

Moriarty smirked at him, his eyes taking on an odd glimmer, "Not in your mind," he told him, shaking his head, "I'll never be dead there. You once called your brain a hard drive," he began to walk towards Holmes as he went on, "Well, say hello to the virus. This is how we end, you and I. Always here, always together," he shook his head lightly, his gaze fixed on Holmes.

Holmes slowly walked closer to him, eyeing him closely as he came to a stop after only a few steps, "You have magnificent brain, Moriarty," he said softly, though his voice carried easily over the constant sound of the rushing waterfall, "I admire it," Moriarty smiled, his lips closed, but Holmes wasn't finished quite yet, "I concede it may be even be the equal of my own".

His smile widened, "I'm touched," he lifted his head very slightly, "I'm honoured," he titled his head then, actually showing his teeth now, "Though, I expect Amy has heard it all before. I'm almost hurt," he mock gasped, placing his right hand over his heart, as though it actually pained him.

"Oh, I should think that it won't be the last time," he stared back at him coldly, his eyes narrowed very slightly on his target, his mind running through every move, every vital target point within the human body to bring Moriarty to his knees, or better yet, right over the edge of the ledge they currently stood on. Mentioning Amelia's name right now with such familiarity, after all that Moriarty had done to hurt her over the years, made his blood boil, "Because when it comes to the matter of unarmed combat on the edge of a precipice…" he felt a rush of satisfaction wash over him as Moriarty's smile vanished, "…you're going in the water…" he paused briefly, allowing himself the moment to enjoy the sheer look of anger burning in Moriarty's dark, almost black eyes, "…short-arse".

Moriarty was completely still for a second, before he suddenly lashed out with angry hiss, sounding like a cat as he jabbed his gloved fingers directly at Holmes's throat. Holmes had been expecting an attack, but he had never imagined that Moriarty could move so swiftly, caught off guard as his fingers stuck his throat, chocking him and sending him stumbling backwards, his deerstalker slipping off his head as he automatically grabbed at his throat. Moriarty attacked again, coming at him and shoving him back against the rock wall, grabbing Holmes's ears, making Holmes grunt painfully and squeeze his eyes shut, before he managed to bring his right leg up, kicking Moriarty hard in his side. Moriarty released him and stumbled back from him with a small groan, providing Holmes the chance to straighten, punching him the second Moriarty moved towards him again, sending the other man reeling back. He breathed heavily, giving his head a sharp shake, trying to ignore the lingering pain in his throat and ears as Moriarty turned back to him.

"Oh, you think you're so big and strong, Sherlock!" Moriarty shouted, moving towards him again, seeming completely unaffected by their fight, "Not with me!"

He punched him directly in the face, sending Holmes reeling backwards and onto his knees, his back to Moriarty as he grunted from the impact. He quickly climbed back onto his feet, swinging his fist at Moriarty, who managed to block it and instead grabbed his arm, shoving him back, hard, with his shoulder. Holmes went down again, landing with a thump on his stomach that forced the air from his lungs, his head very nearly over the end of the ledge. As he opened his eyes again, gasping for breath, he could see nothing but the swirling mist of water below them, but he knew that falling from this height would surely result in death, and if he died in the dream, would he die in the real world? A flash of Amelia's face crossed his mind, the real Amelia with her red lips and absurdly expensive taste in clothing, and he knew that he couldn't allow that to happen, not if it meant that she would be left alone to try and discover the truth of if her brother truly was alive or not. But he didn't know how much longer he could do this dance, Moriarty was clearly a far faster and aggressive fighter then he had first expected, groaning slightly as he managed to roll himself onto his back, finding Moriarty looming over him.

"I am your _weakness_!" Moriarty yelled down at him, crying out in anger as he suddenly kicked Holmes in the head, sending him back down onto the ground with a groan, "I keep you _down_!" he kicked him again, in the head, and Holmes grunted again. He dropped down onto his knees beside him, leaning over him, shouting right into Holmes's face, "Every time you _stumble_ , every time you _fail_ , when you're _weak_ …" Holmes grimaced against the shouting, trying to shut him out, but he might as well as tried to shut out the noise of the waterfall. He punched him in the chest and rose, standing over him once more, "I….AM…" he bent down and punched him in the chest again, making Holmes flinch, "…THERE!" his teeth were bared in a furious snarl, dropping back onto his knees, grabbing the front of Holmes's coat as he tried to sit up, tried to fight back, his hands failing useless against Moriarty's hold, "No. Don't try to fight it. _LIE BACK AND LOSE_!" he shouted into his face, forcing him up from the ground. They scuffled for a moment, Holmes grabbing at Moriarty's front, desperately trying to gain the upper hand, but he didn't stand a chance, and he found himself shoved sideways towards the edge of the ledge, Moriarty leaning him towards the edge, "Shall we go over together?" he said loudly, ignoring Holmes's struggle, "It has to be together, doesn't it? At the end, it's always just you…AND ME!" he screamed the last two words, trying to shove him closer to the edge.

Holmes, however, dug his heels in, refusing to budge, desperately trying to resist against the surprising amount of strength that the much shorter man possessed, when a very familiar male voice drifted through the air, clearing his throat pointedly. Both men looked back to see Watson standing a few feet away from them, smiling very slightly as he held up his revolver, cocking it before he aimed it directly at Moriarty's head.

"Professor," he said completely calmly, his hand steady on the gun, "If you wouldn't mind stepping away from my friend. I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying".

Holmes broke into a smile, almost looking smug as he let go of Moriarty, his eyes fixed on Watson. Moriarty blinked rapidly, dropping his hands from Holmes, looking back and forth between both men with a frustrated expression.

"That's not fair," he complained, holding his hands out either side of himself, glaring at Holmes, "There's two of you!"

"Actually, there's _three_ of us, darling brother," Amelia's voice came from out of the shadows behind Watson, just before she stepped forward beside the good doctor, smiling pleasantly, though her dark eyes were narrowed on her brother. She had forgone her glasses, which only proved that this was surely a dream, for Holmes knew just how terrible her sight was without them, her hair perfectly curled in a complicated twist, while she wore a deep, blood red silk evening dress with black elbow length gloves and a ruby necklace. She looked as though she was better suited to the ballroom or opera, but Amelia could always be counted to be considered 'overdressed'. She lifted an eyebrow casually, "Not that one would know such a thing if you merely read _The Strand_ …" she shot Watson a pointed glare at that.

Watson sighed loudly beside her, closing his eyes briefly, "I told you, Mrs Holmes, I would correct the mistake as soon as we return to London," he assured her, sounding as though he deeply wished to simply move on from the subject, "You shall have a full introduction to the public in my next publication…"

She gave him a bright, slightly sarcastic smile, "About time, I should say, too," she said with a nod, stepping forward and plucking Holmes's deerstalker off the ground, tossing it across to Holmes as she straightened, "Hello, darling," she greeted her husband as though she had just returned home after a day out, "You truly ought to know better than to leave your things littering the floor. You're almost as bad as the children".

"Amelia," Holmes eyed her, absently shaking his hat out, before slipping it onto his head with a tug, "Nice of you to dress up for the occasion".

"Of course, I did rather think that red silk suited the situation perfectly. Now, what are we to do with my dear, utterly mad brother?"

Watson glanced at Amelia and Holmes, before turning back to Moriarty, "On your knees, Professor," he told Moriarty, gesturing his gun down towards the ground. Moriarty glared at Holmes, before throwing Amelia a dark look as he reluctantly moved to kneel by the edge of the ledge, facing out over it, "Hands behind your head," he added firmly, and he rolled his eyes in annoyance and lifted his hands up behind his head.

Holmes looked across to Watson and Amelia, smiling at them, "Thank you, John, Amelia," he said sincerely.

Watson blinked and exchanged a brief look with Amelia, before turning back to Holmes, frowning at him, "Since when do you call me John?"

"You'd be surprised," he replied mysteriously, his smile widening.

Again, Watson and Amelia caught each other's eyes and exchanged a knowing little look, "No, we wouldn't," he said with a faint smile, shaking his head lightly as he looked back across to Holmes. Suddenly, he grew serious again, looking down at Moriarty, "Time you woke up, Sherlock," his eyes flickered back up to him, making Holmes look back at him, surprised, "I'm a storyteller. I know when I'm _in_ one".

Amelia looked rather amused, eyeing Holmes knowingly, "I am your wife, my darling," she reminded him, her tone perfectly calm, "How could I _not_ know?"

"Of course," Holmes nodded, his gaze moving between them, almost fondly, "Of _course_ you do," he smiled again, rather proud of them both for managing to surprise him, for reminding him just why they were the two people in the whole world that he could actually stand to be in the presence of for longer than five minutes. Even in his own mind, they still could surprise him.

"So what's he like?" Watson asked, curious, "And Amelia, the other us, in the other place?"

"Smarter then he looks," he said after a brief moment of consideration, glancing at Amelia, who was watching him with an expectant, raised eyebrow, "And she is…" he smiled softly, "Well, she is one of a kind".

Amelia smirked very slightly, looking pleased with his answer, "As I should hope so, too," she remarked, her eyes warm as she looked at him, and Holmes couldn't help returning her smirk.

There was a number of ways that he might have tried to describe Amelia, but the truth was that it was terribly difficult to try and place but a few words to describe her. He was not prone to sentimental words, let alone prone to expressing them aloud when they did occur to him, but he felt that it was right to say that Amelia was one of a kind amongst her peers. Few people would have had the patients to put up with his nonsense for as long as she had without walking away, but she hadn't, not once, she had stuck by his side, even when clear that she didn't agree with his plan or logic, and that meant a great deal to him, knowing that he had someone who would support him. Few people in his life had ever stuck by his side like she had, like John had, but they had, even when he had perhaps given them cause to turn away from him.

"Urgh," Moriarty groaned in disgust, pulling their attention down to him kneeling on the ground between them, "Why don't you two just go and make babies, for God's sake?"

"Don't be rude, James," Amelia told him with an eye roll, "Mother taught us better than that. Or perhaps you require a reminder?" she turned to Watson, lifting an eyebrow, "Watson?"

Watson lowered his revolver and looked over to Holmes, "Would you mind?"

"Not at all," Holmes shook his head.

With that, Watson walked up behind Moriarty and kicked him firmly in the back, sending him falling forward, right over the edge of the ledge. He screamed as he fell, while the three of them moved to look over the edge, watching as he fall further and further away, before he was swallowed up by the blackness of the night, even his scream falling silent. Amelia didn't even blink at the sight of her brother's death, looking perfectly calm as she peered over the edge, quite different from how she would have reacted in reality.

Watson straightened after a moment, glancing at Holmes, "It _was_ my turn".

"Quite so," Holmes agreed pleasantly, as though they were merely having a discussion about cooking dinner, still looking down over the ledge.

"I suppose there is but one last thing to do now," Amelia looked over to Holmes, eyeing him thoughtfully, "You must wake up," she smiled a little sadly as he looked back to her, almost surprised that she had been the one to broach the subject, "You can't remain here, Holmes, you don't belong in this world, not truly. Besides, I should think that the other Watson and myself would be missing you".

He frowned vaguely, considering her closely, "But what about everything that I have here?" he said aloud, unable to stop himself as he thought about everything he would be giving up. He knew it wasn't real, that it had all been a dream, but that didn't change the fact that it had all been so vivid, so real. He wasn't certain he was quite ready to give it up yet.

She reached out and touched his cheek, still smiling sadly as her hand warmed his wet skin, "It's not real," she reminded him softly, "You know it is not real, which is why you must go back, back to where Amelia needs you most".

"Agatha and William…"

"They are but a figment of your subconscious, just as this whole world is. They are, just as our marriage is, a message from your subconscious, something you have ignored for quite some time now, but that doesn't make them real, Holmes. Go home, Amelia needs you, John, Mary…even Mycroft, they need you".

"Out of interest…" Watson looked curiously at Holmes, who blinked back at Amelia, "How _do_ you plan to wake up?"

Holmes frowned very slightly and pulled his eyes off Amelia as she dropped her hand from his cheek, glancing at Watson, realising that he had made up his mind on what to do…or rather, his subconscious had, just as Amelia had said. This whole world had been nothing but his subconscious, dragging him down deeper into his own mind, helped by the drugs he had taken within the real world. Amelia was right, he couldn't stay in this place, he had to go back, back to where the real Amelia Wilson and John Watson waited for him.

"Ooh," he looked around, before turning to face the ledge, already knowing the answer, "I should think like this," he stepped right up to the edge, looking out over the void of blackness beneath him.

"Are you sure?" Watson asked, standing back with Amelia, looking at him.

He looked back over his shoulder to them, "Between the three of us, John," he smiled very slightly, "I _always_ survive a fall".

"But how?"

Amelia laughed, giving Watson a fond look, "Oh, let him go, Watson," she told him, glancing back to Holmes, "I fear that such a question should only lead to further questions, and Holmes is quite late enough as it is".

"Are you not the least bit curious, Mrs Holmes?" Watson frowned at her.

She smiled again, eyeing Holmes, "Oh, of course I am," she said lightly, meeting Holmes's pale blue eyes, "But I also know that we shall never truly know the truth, for Holmes is far too dramatic to ever truly give it. Is that not right, my darling?"

Holmes smirked, giving her a little wink before turning to face the edge of the ledge once more, "It's elementary, my dear Watson," he said, reaching up to pull off his deerstalker, tossing it over the ledge. He bent his knees slightly as he prepared to follow it, before leaping forward with his arms spread wide either side of himself, smiling to himself as he began to plunge downwards, feeling utterly delighted and fully resolved to be returning to the real world once more, back to his Amelia and John, back to his own life, full of possibilities and potential, what did he need a dream landscape for when he still had a life to live?

The next thing that Sherlock became aware of was jolting awake with a sharp gasp, his eyes flickering open as he found himself sitting slumped sideways in the soft, white leather seat of the plane he had been going to his exile on. He blinked groggily, feeling confused for a moment as he tried to adjust to his surroundings, the bright lights and the feeling the leather against the back of his neck, breathing slightly heavier than normal as he looked around. His slightly unfocused, glassy gaze found Amelia as she leaned over him worriedly; her red lips caught between her teeth and her kohl rimmed eyes regarding him with a hint of fear. He couldn't help the smile that crossed his face.

"Miss me?" he asked her, completely calmly.

Amelia released a sharp breath through her lips, closing her eyes briefly in relief, "That isn't funny, Sherlock," she said sharply, fixing him with a look torn between anger and concern.

"Sherlock?" John called, making Sherlock blink and turn his head slightly, finding John standing by the side of his chair, one hand bracing him on top of the seat, eyeing Sherlock with a frown, "You all right?"

"Yes, of course I am," Sherlock replied, giving him a vague, blank look, "Why wouldn't I be?"

" _Seriously_?" Amelia breathed in disbelief, looking utterly stunned that he had even asked that question.

"'Cause you probably just OD'd," Mary cut in, staring at him with narrowed, worried eyes as she stood partly raised from the seat directly across from his, pulling his attention over to her, "You should be in hospital".

He closed his eyes tiredly, "No time," he shook his head lightly, inhaling deeply as he opened his eyes again, frowning, "I have to go to Baker Street now," he moved to start getting up from his seat, making Amelia step back slightly, staring at him as though she didn't know if she wanted to shove him back in his seat or hug him, "Moriarty's back".

He managed to get up, stumbling into the aisle, looking completely wrecked as he grabbed at Amelia's hand as he went. He went to try and move towards the door, when he stumbled again and had to pause to try and regain his balance, giving his head a sharp shake as he tried to focus. Amelia watched him with a deep, worried frown, though she made no move to try and steady him, while John and Mary also watched worriedly. Mycroft remained where he was standing in the middle of the aisle just ahead of his little brother, eyeing him carefully.

"I almost hope he is," he said, "If it'll save you from this," he held up the slip of paper with the list of drugs that Sherlock had taken, folded in one half.

Sherlock looked exasperated and grabbed it out of his hand, letting go of Amelia's hand in order to tear the paper in half, "No need for that now," he glanced up at his brother, dropping the paper onto the floor, "Got the real thing. I have work to do. Come on, Amelia," he grabbed her hand again, before Amelia even had a chance to try and argue, and went to walk forward.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, refusing to move out of the way, forcing Sherlock to come to a stop. He was watching him closely as Sherlock slowly lifted his head to meet his eyes, "Promise me?"

Amelia bit her lip, looking between the two brothers. This was quite possibly the closest that she had heard Mycroft come to sincerely begging his brother, and she so desperately hoped that Sherlock would listen for once in his life and actually do as his older brother asked. But one glance at Sherlock's face told her that Mycroft's words held little power of him, she only hoped that she and John could get through to him. At least Sherlock seemed to respect them, even if he might not always listen to them, either.

"What are you still doing here?" Sherlock frowned at Mycroft after a moment, giving his head a sharp little shake again, as though trying to get his muddled brain to focus, "Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something, like a _proper_ big brother?"

"Sherlock," Amelia said sternly, giving his hand a hard tug as he went to walk forward again, forcing him to stop and glance back over his shoulder to her with a puzzled look, as though he couldn't understand why she wasn't just trotting along behind him, "For God's sake, you literally almost died and that's all you've got to say to your own brother?"

"Oh, yes, I forgot how wonderfully close you and your brother were…"

"Don't you dare start getting sarcastic with _me_ ," she snapped angrily, roughly snatching her hand out of his grip in order to stab her finger into his chest, glaring into his surprised, glassy eyes. She had enough, she had managed to hold her tongue for long enough for Sherlock to finally come down from the worst of his high, but _now_ …she just couldn't hold back now, not when she felt like she had been slammed repeatedly by half a dozen different emotions and stress, not when he didn't even seem to care about what they had been through, too, "Not now, not when I'm already dealing with enough as it is, because I can't deal with your flippant attitude right now after almost witnessing you dying in front of me! So shut up, apologise, and then maybe we can talk about our next problem".

Sherlock actually blinked at her, silence falling over the plane's cabin as everyone stared at Amelia in varying degrees of shock as she breathed heavily, her index finger still pressed sharply into his chest, though he hardly seemed to even notice it. Amelia felt as though she was a pressure cooker ready to explode with emotion, one part of her wanted to break down in tears and scream until she lost her voice, while another part of her just wanted to hold it all together and get on with it, emotions rolling over her in overwhelming waves. Fear, anger, concern, anxiety, grief, it all just seemed to keep tumbling over her, pressing down on her chest almost like someone had physically grabbed her heart and squeezed it.

"You almost died, Sherlock," she breathed, her face crumbling as tears filled her eyes, surprising even her as she felt a sob rising in her throat. Her finger slacked and she splayed her palm over his chest, desperately sucking in air in attempt to hold back tears, feeling his heart pounding beneath her hand, "You almost _died_ and…Oh, God… _you_ …I don't know if I want to kill you myself or hug you right now, and it's really, _really_ annoying!"

Sherlock seemed to make the choice for her, suddenly pulling her into a hug that was so startling in itself for him to be displaying physical affection in front of others, that it actually made her let out a half-sob, half-shocked squeak as she suddenly found her face pressed into his neck.

"For once, I think hugging would be a better option," he said softly in her ear, gripping her tightly, his voice rumbling through his chest, "One homicidal Moriarty was more than enough for the world," he pulled back from her after a moment, clearing his throat rather awkwardly as he glanced at Mycroft, John, and Mary, who were watching them with rather surprised looks, too. He released his hold from Amelia as she sniffed, reaching up to try and carefully wipe tears from beneath her eyes, "I…apologise," he told them, rather reluctantly, "I never meant to cause any distress…" he glanced pointedly at Amelia he said that, making her huff, "But I assure you, I'm fine. Now, can we please focus on our case?"

"It's hardly your best apology," Amelia sighed, incredibly grateful, not for the first time that day, that she had thought to wear waterproof makeup. Still, at least she felt slightly less like screaming or crying hysterically, "But I suppose its better than I expected. Come on".

Slightly red and watery eyed, she exchanged a look with Mycroft as he eyed her with a strange look on his face, moving aside to allow her and Sherlock to pass him as they headed towards the door, Sherlock pausing to grab his coat on the way out as they slipped outside and down the stairs, down onto the tarmac. Mary followed close behind them as Sherlock shrugged his coat on, walking towards the park town car a short distance away from the plane, just as John joined them.

"Sherlock, Amelia, hang on," he called as he hurried along a couple of steps behind Mary, "Moriarty's alive, then?"

Sherlock stopped a few steps away from the car, slipping his hand into his pocket, pulling out his gloves, "I never said he was alive," he corrected him, turning slightly towards them, "I said he was _back_ ".

"So he's dead?" Mary asked, looking steadily between Sherlock and Amelia.

"Of course James is dead," Amelia replied at once, having never doubted it even for a second, even with the evidence and everyone else acting as though he had returned from the grave, even Sherlock for a time. To be fair, though, he had been high at the time, "If James was still alive, we would know about it by now, he never could resist getting what he wanted when he wanted it".

"He blew his own brains out," Sherlock added, causing Amelia to flinch. He glanced at her briefly, looking vaguely apologetic, "No-one survives that. I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it…" he paused and cleared his throat as he caught Amelia's eye again, regret crossing his face as he noticed her pale slightly, dropping his gaze back down onto the tarmac beneath his feet, "Moriarty is dead, no question," he went on firmly, looking back up again, "But more importantly…" he looked thoughtful, looking off to the side, "I know exactly what he's going to do next".

Amelia blinked at that, looking rather surprised and curious as Sherlock broke into a smile, not even bothering to explain himself as he turned on his heel and walked quickly around the front of the car towards the back passenger door. She turned back to John and Mary, only to find them looking equally confused as she felt, before she sighed and shook her head, moving to open the back passenger door on the right side of the car, slipping inside as Sherlock did the same on the other side, John slipping into the front seat, while Mary managed to squeeze into the back. As the car pulled away and began to drive off down the tarmac, Amelia couldn't help leaning slightly closer into Sherlock's side, allowing herself a second of peace, before the next adventure that surely awaited them, and the hidden secrets that were undoubtedly going to come to light in the end.

….

Morning light flitted through the windows of Baker Street, while Amelia sat delicately on the armrest of Holmes's armchair, the dark pink ruffled skirts of her dress draped elegantly over her legs, holding a small floral, china teacup in her hands as she sipped her tea. Beside her, sitting in his favoured armchair, was her husband, Holmes, holding his lit and smoking pipe in one hand as he wore his purple dressing gown over his clothing, having just finished regaling them with the most incredible tale of the future. Watson had also joined them for the morning, sitting across from them with a thoughtful, vaguely puzzled frown upon his face, holding his own lit pipe poised in one hand.

"Flying machines," Watson remarked aloud, shaking his head lightly, "These, er, telephone contraptions…" he focused his gaze onto Holmes, eyeing him closely, as though he feared for his mental health, "What sort of lunatic fantasy is that?"

"It is a rather curious tale, my darling," Amelia agreed, bringing her teacup up to her lips to take a small, delicate sip, glancing sideways at Holmes.

"It was simply my conjecture of what a future might look like," Holmes told them, seeming quite unbothered by their disbelief, "And how myself, Mrs Holmes, and you, Watson, might fit inside it," he shrugged lightly, while Watson nodded in consideration, lifting his pipe up to his lips, "From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara".

Watson removed his pipe from between his lips, "Or a Reichenbach," he added, inclining his head towards Holmes, before lifting the pipe back to his mouth.

"Quite so, Watson," Amelia smiled faintly, lowering her teacup back down onto her matching saucer, lifting an eyebrow as she eyed him, one hand moving to lightly rest upon her abdomen, "How fairs the latest edition of your publication? I am most looking forward to reading it, considering your reassurance of my inclusion".

"I remember, Mrs Holmes, and I assure you, I think you will be most pleased with my work. I finished it last night, in fact".

"Hmm," Holmes hummed around his pipe as Amelia looked pleased, smiling happily as she took another sip of tea. He frowned very slightly, removing his pipe, "Modified to put it down as one of our rare failures, of course?" he eyed Watson.

"Of course".

"And I presume it has yet to be titled?" Amelia lifted an eyebrow, and Watson nodded in confirmation, his pipe sticking out of his mouth.

Holmes looked thoughtful, slipping his pipe from his lips, "' _The Adventure of…the Invisible Army_ ,'" he suggested after a moment, looking back to Amelia, who wrinkled nose slightly, and then across to Watson. Watson considered it thoughtfully, his pipe between his lips as he gazed up towards the ceiling. Holmes, sensing that it needed some work, tried again, "' _The League of Furies_?'" he sat forward slightly, looking quickly between his companions, Amelia shaking her head lightly. He suddenly broke into a smile; certain he had the perfect name, "' _The Monstrous Regiment'_ ".

"Holmes…" Amelia sighed, instantly making his smile slip as he focused on her, "Must you make it sound even more…horrifying? The story itself has enough horror and excitement within the pages; I should not think that the title need to be quite so… _monstrous_ ".

"I rather thought…" Watson spoke up, slipping his pipe out of his mouth, "' _The Abominable Bride'_ ".

Instantly, her eyes lit up as Holmes sat back, looking slightly deflated, "Oh, that is wonderful, Watson," she said brightly, "It is simple, but descriptive, while still maintaining a sense of drama and excitement…"

"A trifle lurid," Holmes sniffed slightly, casting her a quick, disgruntled look, obviously feeling rather sore that he hadn't been the one to make her so delighted by his idea of the title.

Watson looked amused, giving his friend a knowing little look, "It'll sell," he said, while Amelia nodded firmly in agreement, "It's got proper murders in it, too".

Holmes pointed his pipe at him, "You're the expert," he commented lightly, smiling very faintly across to him, seemingly quite over his little upset over the name.

"As for your own tale," he began, eyeing Holmes closely as he raised an eyebrow curiously, "Are you sure it's still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage," he slipped the pipe back into his mouth.

"Holmes's hasn't touched any narcotics since that previous incident, Watson," Amelia informed him, smiling softly as she glanced at Holmes beside her, rather pleased that he had actually assured her that he would no longer be in the practice of using such methods, from now on, for which she was incredible pleased. She was uncertain if he could ever truly give up the habit, for she knew that few ever did, but if anyone one could do it, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

"Perhaps I was being a little fanciful…" Holmes said, considering what he had told them, glancing at Amelia briefly. He looked thoughtfully at his lap, "But perhaps such things could come to pass," he looked back up to them, before he uncrossed his legs and moved to stand, "In any case, I know I would be very much at home in such a world, just as I imagine you would too, Amelia," he looked back over his shoulder to her as he spoke, having moved towards the right-side window.

"It does sound like a most fantastic world, indeed," she remarked, thinking upon all that he had said, how he had spoken of women having the right to vote, to work, to do whatever they so pleased without need for permission from any man. It was just the sort of future that she had always longed for, she only wished she had been born another century later for her to have had the chance to enjoy it for herself, but it cheered her to think that perhaps Agatha and William would have the chance to see it, and whatever other children that were coming in the not so distant future as well.

Watson chuckled slightly, seeming to find the whole notion rather absurd, "I don't think I would ever feel at home in such a fantasy world, Holmes," he shook his head, lifting his pipe back up to his lips.

"I beg to differ," Holmes replied, coming to stand before the window, peering out, "But then I've always known I was a man out of his time".

He absently lifted his pipe back up to his mouth, watching outside the window as a vision of the future world filled his eyes, a world of polished cars and buses driving passed, of men and women jostling by the front door in their modern clothing, of the distant noise of horns and traffic. It was another world from the one he lived in, but he knew that he would have found it no more alien in the future then he did in 1895.

"Mama! Papa!"

The living room door suddenly flew open and two dark haired children dashed into the room, pulling Holmes back to his own world as a small five year old girl suddenly came hurtling towards his legs, while an excited, curly haired little boy moved straight for Amelia with an excited cry of, 'Mama, look what I drew!'. Holmes dismissed the window as he looked down at the little girl, giving her a small smile as he bent down to pick her up, caring little for if it was perhaps not a common sight for a Victorian gentlemen to be seen doing. After all, he was hardly the most typical Victorian gentlemen, was he?

 _ **And it's over, which I am a little sad about because I so enjoyed writing Victorian Amelia, toying with how different she was to her modern counterpart, compared to how similar she was. I think the main difference is the way they act out their emotions, Amelia will explode with emotion in front of people like John and Mary, even Lestrade, without a second thought, while her Victorian counterpart is more controlled. I so enjoyed getting to know that side of her character, and if you didn't catch it at the end there, but she is actually pregnant with her third child.**_

 _ **Now, it is the end of this story, so the next story will be up in a few hours and it will be called…Hidden Truths! I even slipped it in to this chapter, basically it's about the hidden truths that are going to be revealed in the coming season, each character has one, if you think about it. John's emotional affair, Mary's past, Mycroft secretly keeping Eurus hidden away, Sherlock's plan to try and regain John's friendship back, and Amelia…well, you'll have to wait and see what her hidden secret is, something relating back to her past that will have a role to play in the final episode. I have hinted at it in the previous story. So keep an eye out for that.**_

 _ **I want to thank you all for you support with this story, all of your reviews, favourites, and alerts have meant so much to me, each and every one of them truly do make my day when I get them. Thank you, whether you've been reading since the start (if you have, I am so sorry for those early chapters and mistakes, I do plan to fully edit when I get the chance), or if you've stumbled across the story along the way, you are all so wonderful for taking the time to read or comment. Thank you all :)**_


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